Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.archive.org/details/divinegiftplayinOOjone 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT 


All  rirjhts  reserved. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

A     PLAY     IN     THREE     ACTS 

BY 

HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1913, 
By  George  H.  Dorav  Company 


^4- 


DEDICATION 


572389 


DEDICATION 


To  PROFESSOR  GILBERT  MURRAY,  LL.D., 
Regius  Professor  of  Greek  at  Oxford. 

Dear   Professor   Murray,  —  In    yom^    interesting 

summary  of  the  modern  English  drama,  as  reported 

in  an  American  paper  last  spring,  you  incidentally  |^\^v^ 

buried  me.     I  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that  I  was  ' 

dead,  and  am  still  under  the  impression  that  I  am 

alive.      But   this   may    be   mei'ely   a   wilful,   selfish 

prejudice  of  mine. 

Vast  numbers  of  our  population,  wearing  a  human 
shape,  move  about  amongst  us,  eating,  chattering, 
marketing,  dressing  and  undressing  themselves, 
crowding  our  streets  and  churches  and  trains,  in  the 
fixed  idea  that  they  are  alive;  whereas  they  are 
virtually  as  defunct  as  if  their  bones  were  in  the 
earth  and  their  souls  with  the  saints.  You  will  have 
noticed  that  these  colloidal  bodies  form  a  large  pro- 
portion of  our  voters  at  elections,  and  of  our  audiences 
at  the  theatres ;  while  many  of  our  newspapers  and 


8  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

popular  magazines  are  written  almost  exclusively  for 
them. 

And  for  all  I  know  I  may  be  one  of  them.  In  that 
case  it  was  a  kindly  and  thoughtful  action  on  your 
part  to  bury  me.  For  this  persistent  mass  of  obstruc- 
tive matter,  walking  about  in  the  guise  of  living  men 
and  women,  is  a  sad  and  main  hindrance  to  the  real 
business  of  the  world.  And  as  our  drama  is  already 
clogged  and  choked  with  it,  you  were  moved  by  a 
wise  impulse  in  trying  to  get  some  of  it  out  of  the 
way. 

Being  thus  mercifully  disposed  of,  I  fear  it  shows  a 
great  want  of  consideration  on  my  part  to  revisit  you, 
and  ask  you  to  accept  the  dedication  of  the  following 
play,  written,  I  grieve  to  tell  you,  after  my  com- 
pulsory interment.  You  cannot  but  think  it  a 
monstrous  impertinence  for  me  to  pretend  to  be  still 
alive.  It  may  be  necessary  for  you,  or  for  some  stern 
guardian  of  the  very  latest  school  of  modern  drama, 
to  treat  me  as  Punch  treats  the  obtuse  policeman  who 
also  shows  symptoms  of  recalcitrant  vitahty  —  to 
chastise  my  obstinacy  with  redoubled  thwacks,  and  to 
shout  over  me  more  exultant  paeans.  At  least  I  here 
offer  you  a  chance  to  give  me  a  deeper  and  more  deter- 
mined and.  more  forcible  burial — after  you  have 
carefully  ascertained  this  time  that  I  am  really 
dead. 

However,  this  preference  or  whim  of  mine  for 
keeping  alive  is,  after  all,  a  mere  personal  concern.  If 
I  can  be  persuaded  that  the  interests  of  the 
drama  are  thereby  to  be  served  I  am  ready  to  yield 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  9 

the  point,  and  will  uncomplainingly  attend  my  own 
funeral  in  the  usual  quiescent  horizontal  manner.  In 
any  case  it  is  not  a  matter  of  great  importance. 

What,  however,  is  of  great  importance  is  the  fact 
that  an  English  scholar  and  man  of  letters  of  your 
standing  is  to  be  found  taking  a  keen  interest  in  the 
modern  acted  drama  ;  that  you  are  alive  to  its  vast 
influence  for  good  or  evil  in  our  national  life  ;  that  you 
are  searching  out  its  laws  ;  that  you  are  actively  en- 
gaged in  advancing  its  welfare,  and  bringing  it  again 
into  communion  with  English  literature  ;  that  being  a 
man  of  letters  you  are  also  a  man  of  the  theatre.  That 
is  a  fact  upon  which  the  English  modern  drama  is  to 
be  congratulated.  And  if  I  have  timidly  hinted  a 
doubt  aS|  to  the  soundness  of  your  judgment  in  one 
individual  case,  this  need  scarcely  detract  from  the 
value  of  your  advocacy  as  a  whole. 

For  English  men  of  letters  do  as  a  rule  make  a 
woeful  mess  of  it  when  they  turn  their  attention  to  the 
modern  drama.  There  was  Mr.  Birr  ell,  for  instance, 
who  set  out  to  prove  that  Browning  was  essentially  a 
popular  playwright  who  only  just  missed  being  popular, 
because  the  dense  stupidity  of  the  public  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  popular  in  his  own  remote  unpopular 
way. 

However,  Mr.  Birrell  has  ceased  to  confuse  the  public 
mind  upon  the  subject  of  dramatic  literature,  and  has 
since  been  elegantly  toying  with  ISTational  Education 
and  Home  Rule. 

Now  our  so-called  modern  literary  plays  may  for  the 
most  part  be  divided  into  three  classes — those  that  are 


10  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

not  plays ;  those  that  are  not  literature ;  and  those 
that  are  -neither  plays  nor  literature. 

Clearly,  a  literary  play  should  first  of  all  be  a  play. 
Its  story,  motives,  and  characters  should  be  so  plain 
and  direct  as  to  hold  the  interest  of  an  average  audience 
from  beginning  to  end.  It  should  stand  the  noisy  test 
of  representation  on  the  boards. 

Clearly,  a  literary  play  should  also  be  literature.  If 
it  is  a  play  of  modern  life  its  dialogue  should  be  easy, 
natural,  colloquial,  unstilted,  unaflfected,  characteristic 
of  each  person  speaking  in  each  situation.  It  should 
carefully  avoid  being  banal,  commonplace,  slangy,  or 
smart  and  epigrammatic  on  the  level  of  a  cheap  comic 
illustrated  paper.  It  should  stand  the  quiet  test  of 
reading  in  the  study. 

This  does  not  imply  that  the  literary  dramatist  is 
limited  in  his  choice  of  characters  to  those  persons  who 
talk  like  a  book.  It  does  imply  that  he  should  choose 
only  those  persons  who  occasionally  do  and  say  things 
that  are  worthy  of  remembrance,  and  that  he  should 
choose  them  in  those  few  moments  and  situations  when 
they  are  saying  and  doing  such  things..  And  to  the 
extent  that  he  does  this,  will  his  play  become  more  and 
more  unlike  a  picture  of  ordinary  average  actualities, 
more  unlike  what  is  called  "  a  slice  of  life."  It  will 
become  more  artificial  in  that  sense  in  which  all  works 
of  art  are  artificial.  The  higher  the  art  and  the  higher 
the  subject,  the  more  surely  the  artist  is  forced  to 
employ  transparent  artifice.  Art  is  art  because  it  is 
not  nature. 

I  notice   you  are  growing  impatient.      You  will 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  11 

surely  rebuke  me  for  daring  to  offer  such  a  platitude 
to  the  translator  of  Euripides  and  Aristophanes. 
But  I  am  not  now  addressing  you  as  the  delightful 
and  scholarly  translator,  who  commands  my  unques- 
tioning admiration.  I  am  addressing  you  as  the 
critic  of  modern  English  drama.  And  may  I  be 
pardoned  for  saying  that,  in  your  reported  American 
utterances,  I  thought  I  detected  some  divergency  of 
general  outlook  between  your  two  characters?  I 
thought  I  perceived  what  Urquhart,  equal  in  renown 
with  yourself  as  a  translator  of  classics,  would  have 
called  "  an  enormous  dissolution  of  continuity." 

But  this  failure  of  mine  to  reconcile  your  points  of 
view  may  be  due  to  that  perversity  and  confusion 
which  cloud  the  mind  and  vision  of  moribund 
persons,^andjwhich  probably  deepen  and  intensify  when 
once  they  are  safely  and  determinately  dead.  And 
perhaps  it  is  this  perversity  and  confusion  of  mind 
which,  clinging  to  me  even  in  the  shades,  lead  me  to 
ask  a  few  querulous  inopportune  questions. 

Has  not  our  modern  drama  been  getting  away  from 
the  centre  of  late  ?  Is  it  not  showing  a  tendency  to 
leave  the  main  road  and  run  up  little  by-lanes  ? 
When  it  is  not  freakish,  argumentative,  paradoxical, 
does  it  not  become  merely  photographic  and  phono- 
graphic ?  In  its  ambition  to  be  a  faithful  reporter  of 
life,  a  diligent  student  of  commonplace  persons  in 
commonplace  moods  and  situations,  a  cataloguer  of 
small  actualities,  has  it  not  largely  declined  to  be 
the  haunting  imaginative  interpreter  of  life  ?  And  in 
its  desire  to  transcribe  in  an  honest  businesslike  way 


12  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

the  actual  talk  of  actual  everyday  persons,  has  it  not 
largely  denied  itself  the  chance  of  saying  anything  that 
is  worth  listening  to  and  worth  recording  ?  How  will 
these  plays  look  in  a  dozen  years'  time?  Will  their 
raw  modernity  mellow  with  time,  and  blend  with  the 
permanent  hues  and  tones  of  humanity  ?  How  do 
they  read  now  ? 

Many  plays  of  the  last  generation,  which  you  were 
reported  to  call  old-fashioned,  are  in  print,  and  their 
sale,  if  not  large,  is  steady  and  regular.  Some  of 
them,  dating  almost  twenty  years,  have  been  revived 
at  West  End  theatres  within  the  last  year  or  two, 
have  met  with  great  success,  and,  strangely  enough, 
have  been  caressed  by  the  journals  as  not  showing  any 
essential  signs  of  age. 

It  is  true  that  they  do  not  set  out  to  tackle  the 
latest  newspaper  and  political  problems  in  the  spirit 
and  by  the  methods  of  the  social  reformer.  Neither 
^rf"\  does  any  play  that  has  lived.  If  I  may  whisper 
a  caution  to  young  and  aspiring  playwrights, 
I  would  say,  "  Never  choose  for  your  theme  a  burning 
question  of  the  hour,  unless  you  wish  merely  for  a 
success  that  will  burn  out  in  an  hour.  If  you 
♦.    \    '  wish  your  plays  to  live,  choose  permanent   themes 

and  universal  types  of  character." 

A  warm  admirer  and  encourager  of  the  youthful 
Shakespeare  once  said  to  him,  "  Lucky  Dramatist,  to 
live  in  these  stirring  times,  when  religious  England  has 
just  been  shaken  to  her  depths,  and  when  all  this 
ferment  of  Puritanism  is  rising  in  her  veins !  Up, 
man  !     Give  us  a  great  religious  play  dealing  with 


/ 


THE  DIVINE  GIFr  13 

these  burning   actualities."      Shakespeare   was   deaf     \    \ 
that  morning. 

How  stale  is  the  whiff  of  past  controversies  and  ,    ^^ 
burning  problems !     How  already  past  and  forgotten  i    li4>-*»-''^*'<«* 
by  the  artist  are  the  storms  and  fevers  of  his  own  ' 
time !     How  sure  is  his  path  to  oblivion  who  treats 
some  question  of  the  passing  hour  in  some  mode  of  the 
passing  hour  1 

We  have  lately  been  reading  Les  Dieux  ont  soif. 
Evariste  Gamelin,  the  young  revolutionary  painter, 
was,  like  yourself,  in  the  heat  of  a  classic  Kenascence, 
and  will  therefore  engage  your  sympathy.  Gamelin 
was  in  the  movement.  He  proposed  to  make  it  hum 
by  means  of  a  pack  of  revolutionary  cards  whereon 
symbolic  figures  of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity 
should  replace  the  outworn  figments  of  Kings,  Queens, 
and  Knaves.  The  citizen  Blaise  with  a  shrewder  know- 
ledge of  what  is  perennially  attractive  in  art  advised 
Gamelin  to  paint  pretty  pink  ladies  with  dainty  hands 
and  feet.  "  L'ardeur  des  citoyens  k  se  reg6n6rer  ti^dit 
avec  le  temps,  et  les  hommes  aimeront  toujours  les 
femmes." 

Gamelin  had  a  furious  hatred  for  Fragonard. 
Fragonard  was  not  in  the  movement.  Fragonard 
was  not  vexing  himself  and  the  world  about  Liberty, 
Equality,  and  Fraternity.  Fragonard  had  committed 
the  mortal  sin  of  being  old-fashioned.  Gamelin  could 
find  in  his  work  neither  nature  nor  truth.  In  a 
hundred  years  it  would  have  rotted  miserably  in 
garrets.  Meanwhile  Gamelin  wished  that  some  lover 
of  art  would  hang  and  flay  Fragonard  as  a  warning 


14  THE   DIVINE  GIFT 

to  bad  painters.  So  said  Gamelin,  who  had  not  your 
kind  gentle  way  of  casually  burying  defunct  artists. 
And  lucky  it  is  for  me  that  I  have  come  under  so  mild 
and  pleasant  a  jurisdiction  as  yours. 

But  Fi-agonard,  who  had  never  been  stridently 
alive,  was  on  that  account  all  the  less  inclined  to  go 
to  an  early  grave. 

A  hundred  years  after  Gamelin's  prophecy,  Frago- 
nard's  paintings,  instead  of  having  rotted  in  garrets, 
were  drawing  us  ail  to  Agnew's.  Agnew's  had  paid 
eighty  thousand  pounds  for  three  of  them ;  certainly 
not  because  they  had  much  nature  or  truth,  but 
because  they  possessed  the  more  enticing  qualities  of 
beauty,  charm,  and  exquisite  workmanship.  And 
Fragonard  remains,  though  his  pictures  give  sadly 
little  evidence  of  any  burning  zeal  for  social  reform. 
He  remains  as  a  guide  to  artists  in  times  of  social 
ferment  and  revolution. 

Gamelin,  too,  remains;  but  not  even  as  a  warning 
to  bad  painters.  He  remains  only  as  a  warning  to 
promoters  of  a  Renascence  in  art. 

Now  I  have  an  intense  sympathy  with  Renascence 
promoters,  because  I  am  one  myself.  You  may 
remember  that  I  had  a  di'amatic  Renascence  of  my 
own  some  twenty  years  ago.  And  now  it  seems  there 
has  been  another  dramatic  Renascence — this  time  a 
veritable,  authentic,  unmistakable  Renascence  of  the 
English  drama.  As  you  are  intimately  associated 
with  this  later  Renascence,  and  as  you  are  vouching 
for  its  leading  spirits,  I  may  perhaps  be  allowed  for  the 
purpose    of   this   paper  to   call  it  your  Renascence. 


THE  DIVINE  GUT  15 

I  think  I  may  put  in  some  claim  to  be  the  original 
promoter  of  a  dramatic  Renascence  in  this  country. 
Indeed,  I  might  furnish  some  plausible,  if  not  quite 
convincing,  evidence  to  show  that  I  am  the  real,  if  not 
the  putative,  father  of  your  Renascence.  But  I  for- 
bear. For  it  would  ill  become  Renascence  promotei's  of 
our  standing  to  dispute  over  trifles,  as  did  the  Dean  and 
Chapter  of  Hereford  over  the  Athanasian  Creed,  and 
Michael  and  Satan  over  the  soul  of  George  the  Third. 

There  is  no  vested  interest  in  Renascences.  Any- 
body can  start  one  at  any  time,  and  sing  Ca  ira. 
Therefore  I  do  not  propose  to  hang  out  a  sign, 
"  Original  promoter  of  the  English  Dramatic  Renas- 
cence; no  connection  with  any  other  firm."  My 
object  in  offering  to  share  the  paternity  of  your 
Renascence,  is  to  show  you  that  I  take  a  friendly 
benevolent  interest  in  it.  In  any  case,  another 
dramatic  Renascence  was  to  be  expected;  judging 
from  the  fact  that,  alike  in  art  and  medicine  and 
philosophy,  whatever  is  claimed  to  be  eternally 
right  and  true  in  one  generation,  is  proved  in 
the  next  to  be  perniciously  wrong  and  fallacious. 
Thus  in  1896  I  wrote :  "  Dramatic  reformers  always 
pretend  to  return  to  nature  and  truth,  and  are  gener- 
ally found  out  in  the  next  generation  to  be  stale 
theatrical  impostors." 

To  this  complexion  must  we  all  come — in  the  next 
generation — by  the  inevitable  operation  of  the  law  of 
change.  Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must,  like  chimney- 
sweepers, submit  to  a  provisional  interment.  But  a 
time  comes  when  friendly  hands  exhume  the  remains, 


16  THE  DIVINE  GIFl^ 

and  hold  an  inquest  on  such  of  them  as  still  show 
symptoms  of  recalcitrant  vitality.  And  then  it  is 
discovered  that  while  the  chimney-sweepers  have  come 
to  dust  and  putrefaction,  the  golden  lads  and  girls 
have  only  put  on  a  borrowed^likeness  of  shrunk  death, 
and  they  awake  as  fi'om  a  pleasant  sleep,  and  come 
trippingly  forth,  never  again  to  be  hurt  by  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  or  to  fear  slander  and  rash  censure.  The 
lion  Time,  as  in  Victor  Hugo's  exquisite  poem,  has 
only  pretended  to  devour  them,  and  has  all  the  while 
been  lovingly  keeping  them  in  his  cave,  waiting  a 
signal  to  lead  them  forth,  flushed  with  resurgent 
vigour  and  youth. 

If  I  may  jot  down  a  rough  rule  or  two  whereby  we 
may  estimate  the  permanent  value  of  a  piece  of  art  or 
literature,  I  would  state  them  thus  :  "  The  form  need 
not  be  perfect,  if  the  substance  is  eternal.  The  sub- 
stance need  not  be  eternal,  if  the  form  is  perfect.  But 
form  or  substance,  or  both,  must  be  prepared  to  stand 
very  hard  wear.  Originality,  either  of  form  or  sub- 
stance, is  to  be  shrewdly  suspected  and  questioned. 
Some  element  of  beauty  must  enter  into  the  com- 
position." 

I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  your  reputation  as  sponsor, 
and  for  the  sake  of  my  reputation  as  provisional  backer 
of  your  Renascence,  that  you  have  carefully  assured 
yourself  that  some  such  tests  as  these  may  be  safely 
applied  to  the  work  of  our  prot6g6s.  Otherwise  we 
shall  be  left  in  the  lurch,  and  I  shall  be  inclined  to 
hedge,  and  cry  off  my  share  in  the  paternity. 

I  have  lately  heard  a  former  admirer  and  defender 


THE    DIVINE  GIFT  17 

of  Ibsen  declare  that  he  had  just  re-read  thirteen  of 
his  plays,  and  found  them  faded  and  old-fashioned. 
So,  as  Pliable  said  when  he  found  that  a  determina- 
tion to  reach  the  Celestial  City  merely  landed  him  in 
a  sticky  bog,  "  Where  are  we  now  ? "  If  Ibsen  is 
already  to  be  classed  with  the  Bible  and  myself  as 
"  old-fashioned,"  whose  turn  is  to  come  next  ? 

Zola,  too,  was  another  man  who  had  a  Renascence 
of  his  own.  Zola,  too,  groped  for  nature  and  truth  ; 
sometimes,  indeed,  at  the  bottom  of  a  cesspool.  And 
now  it  seems  likely  that  Zola  will  be  far  more  honoured 
as  the  defender  of  Dreyfus,  than  as  the  leader  of  a 
movement  which  has  landed  his  followers  and  imitators 
in  a  very  sticky  bog. 

And  so  the  Renascences  come  and  go.  For  when 
once  we  start  having  Renascences  there's  no  stopping 
them.  Therefore,  I  take  it,  the  chief  thing  for  us 
Renascence  promoters  to  do,  is  to  find  out  when 
somebody  is  coming  along  with  the  next  one. 

If  I  have  not  already  been  too  impertinent,  would  j 

you  kindly  tell  me  how  long  you  expect  your  Renas-  J  / 

cence  to  last  ?     Are  you  quite  sure  of   your   men  ?  /  j 

"What  about  their  staying  power  ?     "Will  they  hold  ■  j 

out  for  twenty  years  ?    Are  they  golden  lads,  or  mere  ^ 

useful  chimney-sweepers  ?     I  have  a  lively  reason  for  1 

pressing   these    questions    upon   you.     The   fact    is  j  i 

I'm  not  quite   sure  whether  I  won't  have  another         |  I 
dramatic  Renascence  of   my   own.     I   am  seriously  « 

thinking  about  it. 

Now  as  a  friendly  Renascence  promoter,  I  am 
anxious  not  to  encroach  on  your  Renascence — while 

B 


18  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

it  has  the  vogue.  Indeed,  while  it  has  the  vogue,  I 
shall  be  one  of  its  warmest  and  blindest  supporters. 
Nobody  will  be  more  ready  than  myself  to  discover  a 
profound  philosophy  of  life  in  what  appears  to  be 
superficial  paradox ;  or  to  acclaim  as  daring  genius 
what  has  an  aspect  of  mere  perversity.  If  any 
character  is  especially  tiresome  or  disagreeable  or 
commonplace,  I  shall  exclaim,  "  How  true  to  life ! — 
What  an  insight  into  human  nature  !  "  For  who  can 
deny  that  average  human  nature  is  at  times  very 
tiresome  and  disagreeable  and  commonplace  ?  And 
how  tenaciously  these  eternal  attributes  of  our 
common  humanity  have  been  seized,  how  vividly  they 
have  been  rendered  in  some  of  our  recent  plays  ! 
One  of  the  leading  aims  of  your  Renascence,  so  far  as 
I  have  been  able  to  understand  it,  is  to  avoid  any 
action  and  story  that  might  arouse  emotion ;  and  for 
such  action  and  emotion  to  substitute  any  ideas  that 
are  likely  to  promote  discussion.  And  I  take  it  the 
more  ideas  that  are  "  presented,"  and  the  more 
perplexing  their  mode  of  presentation,  the  more  dis- 
cussion is  likely  to  be  provoked.  Here,  again,  while 
ideas  and  discussion  are  the  vogue  in  the  theatre, 
your  Renascence  shall  have  my  loudest  approval. 
Later  in  this  volume  I  have  shown  my  passion  for 
ideas.  Meantime,  between  ourselves,  I  have  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  ideas  in  the  theatre  are  driving  the  great 
crowd  of  playgoers  to  musical  comedy,  and  romping 
farce,  and  spectacle.  I  think,  however,  that  at  present 
we  have  a  goodly  number  of  adherents  amongst  the 
omniscient  half-educated  classes.    Our  ditficulty  will 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  19 

be  to  prevent  these  good  people  from  examining  our 
ideas.  This,  I  think,  may  be  overcome  by  continuing 
to  shower  ideas  upon  them  in  such  profusion  and 
confusion  as  to  keep  them  in  their  present  attitude 
of  bewildered  admiration. 

Another  difficulty  will  be  to  prevent  them  from 
finding  out  that  ideas  are  ceasing  to  amuse  them. 
On  leaving  the  theatre  after  reverently  witnessing  a 
piece  that  had  been  commended  to  me  for  its  masterly 
avoidance  of  action,  and  its  masterly  exposition  of 
ideas,  I  was  somewhat  shocked  to  hear  the  following 
conversation  between  two  enthusiasts. 

"  Wasn't  it  splendid  ?     Didn't  you  enjoy  it  ?  " 
"  Oh  yes,  I  enjoyed  it  immensely ;  but  don't  you 
think  it  was  rather  dull  ?  " 

This  sounded  to  me  rather  ominous.  The  play  was 
a  masterpiece.  I  knew  that.  It  had  ideas— bushels 
of  them.  And  in  order  to  appreciate  it,  as  it  deserved, 
I  had  carefully  forgotten  all  laws  of  dramatic  con- 
struction, and  had  carefully  refrained  from  applying 
any  workable  standards  of  morality.  I  mention  this 
to  show  you  to  what  lengths  I  am  willing  to  go  in 
support  of  your  Renascence — while  it  has  the  vogue. 
But  cheerfully  as  I  am  prepared  to  throw  overboard 
all  the  standards  of  morality  and  all  the  laws  of 
dramatic  technique — while  it  is  the  vogue  to  do  so — 
I  cannot  quite  so  readily  accept  the  prospect  of  being 
bored.  I  know  that  this  is  the  final  and  decisive 
test  of  genuine  admiration  of  any  work  of  art — how 
much  unmistakable  boredom  are  we  prepared  to 
endure  in  order  to  be  able  to  say  that  we  enjoy  it  ? 


20  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

Rather  than  you  should  think  me  half-hearted,  I 
will  not  shrink  even  from  this  severe  test.  If  I  find 
dullness  creeping  over  me  I  will  try  to  argue  myself 
out  of  it.  At  any  rate,  I  will  pretend  not  to 
yawn. 

All  these  services  I  am  ready  to  render  to  your 
Renascence — while  it  has  the  vogue.  More  than 
these  amiable  pretences  I  do  not  think  any  of  us 
Renascence  promoters  are  entitled  to  ask  from  our 
supporters. 

Meantime,  I  am  wondering  whether  another  dra- 
matic Renascence  isn't  due.  And  as  I  am  hand- 
somely and  unselfishly  supporting  your  Renascence 
while  it  has  the  vogue,  I  hope  I  may  rely  upon  you 
to  lend  me  a  hand,  if  circumstances  oblige  me  to  float 
another  Renascence  on  my  own  account.  It  is  plain 
that  we  cannot  have  two  Renascences  at  the  same 
time.  The  public  wouldn't  stand  it.  There  isn't  vogue 
enough  to  go  round. 

Vogue  is  a  most  useful  and  necessary  counterpane 
to  cover  the  defects  and  eccentricities  of  a  Renascence. 
It  is  the  size  and  quantity  of  the  vogue,  rather  than 
the  quality  of  the  plays,  that  make  for  a  dramatic 
Renascence. 

And  while  you  have  all  the  counterpane,  what  is 
there  to  cover  my  imperfections  ?  Excuse  my  getting 
a  little  impatient — there's  a  keenish  wind — I  feel  a 
little  chilly  out  here  in  the  cold.  Shall  you  be  very 
long  with  that  counterpane  ? 

I  see  that  you  have  lost  all  patience  with  me.  You 
are  saying,  "  The^e  are   mere  post-mortem  dallyings 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  21 

and  pretexts  to  loiter  in  the  sunshine  and  upper  air. 
Be  off  back  ! " 

And  no  wonder  after  seeing  me  quietly  inhumed,  you 
feel  some  irritation  to  find  that  I  have  burst  my  cere- 
ments, and  am  standing  at  your  door  asking  you  to 
accept  the  dedication  of  the  following  play. 

I  do  this  in  the  sincerest  good  faith,  knowing  how 
great  a  gain  it  is  for  the  modern  English  drama  to 
have  the  countenance  and  sympathy  of  English  men 
of  letters,  how  impossible  it  is  there  should  be  any 
worthy  or  enduring  English  drama  without  the  pass- 
port of  their  authority  and  judgment. 

It  is  true  that  their  judgment  will  be  liable  to 
error,  until  they  have  taken  more  pains  to  study  and 
understand  the  modern  stage. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  sad  case  of  Mr. 
Birrell, 

Then  there  was  the  case  of  Matthew  Arnold.  Thirty 
years  ago,  in  pursuit  of  my  ceaseless  aim  to  get 
English  men  of  letters  to  understand  the  English 
theatre,  I  drew  him  to  take  an  interest  in  the  modern 
acted  drama.  He  came  amongst  us  with  a  grace  and 
amiability  equal  to  your  own.  But  he  had  not  seen 
a  modern  play  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  What  was 
the  result  ? 

It  goes  very  much  against  my  grain  to  deprecate 
the  judgment  of  any  critic  who,  on  any  ground  what- 
ever, praises  any  play  of  mine.  Believe  me,  I  would 
far  rather  own  myself  mistaken.  But  I  am  obliged 
to  confess  that  Matthew  Arnold,  while  perhaps  he  was 
right  in  recognising  that  a  new  movement  bad  started 


22  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

in  the  drama,  did  very  much  overpraise  some  of  my 
crude  early  work.  His  advent,  however,  in  the 
theatre,  like  your  own  advent,  was  of  signal  benefit  to 
the  struggling  English  drama ;  inasmuch  as  it  called 
attention  to  the  fact  that  work  was  being  done  on  the 
modern  stage  which  was  worth  the  attention  and 
examination  of  a  scholar  and  man  of  letters.  And 
this  told  with  the  general  public.  I  think  I  may 
claim  that  under  shelter  of  the  counterpane  Matthew 
Arnold  lent  me,  I  did  some  useful  work  for  the  modern 
drama.  Let  us  therefore  forgive  any  kindly  mistake 
he  may  have  made  in  forming  too  favourable  an 
estimate  of  my  early  plays,  and  pass  on  to  your  own 
case. 

Now  however  readily  and  generously  I  may  condone 
the  error  of  a  man  who  has  overpraised  me,  I  can 
scarcely  be  expected  to  show  quite  the  same  easy 
magnanimity  to  a  man  whom  I  suspect  of  having 
committed  the  opposite  error.  But  here  again  I  have 
no  wish  to  be  dogmatic. 

If  I  may  carry  you  with  me  for  a  moment,  let  us 
provisionally  assume  that  there  is  a  sporting  chance 
you  may  have  been  mistaken.  At  least  let  us  venture 
upon  the  very  general  statement  that  there  is  some 
ground  for  thinking  that  hitherto  English  scholars 
and  men  of  letters  have  approached  and  examined 
the  modern  English  drama  only  to  pronounce  wrong 
judgments  upon  it.     What  does  that  matter  ? 

Consider  the  enormous  mutability  and  worthless- 
ness  of  human  opinion.  Upon  any  imaginable  hypo- 
thesis, the  vast  majority  of  the  countless  billions  of 


THE  DIVINE   GIFT  23 

men  that  have  peopled  this  earth,  must  have  spent 
their  leisure  in  forming  entirely  wrong  opinions  about 
their  temporary  and  eternal  welfare.  Yet  this  appal- 
ling certainty  has  never  deterred  one  of  them  from 
voting,  or  from  burning  his  neighbour,  or  from  smash- 
ing windows,  or  from  hissing  a  play.  It  is  difficult  to 
see  how  mankind  are  to  be  restrained  from  this 
mischievous  habit  of  forming  wrong  opinions.  Nor 
perhaps  would  a  world,  in  which  everybody's  brain 
was  an  automatic  register  of  correct  thought,  be  a 
pleasant  world  to  live  in.  It  would  certainly  ofier 
very  scanty  material  to  the  dramatist.  On  this  score 
let  us  be  well  content  that  a  pervasive  muddleheaded- 
ness  is  the  permanent  and  distinguishing  trait  of 
humanity.  Let  us  sometimes  indulge  ourselves  in  the 
fx-eedom  of  being  comfortably  and  carelessly  wrong, 
and  let  us  allow  this  same  freedom  to  English  men  of 
letters  in  their  judgments  of  the  English  drama. 

For  the  moment  it  is  of  far  greater  importance 
that  English  men  of  letters  should  interest  themselves 
in  our  modern  drama  than  that  they  should  form  right 
opinions  about  it.  Therefore  I  hope  the  possibility 
that  you  have  been  mistaken  in  one  of  your  estimates 
will  not  discourage  you  from  making  another  assay. 

But  you  will  say.  What  is  the  use  of  English  men  of 
letters  coming  to  criticise  the  modern  drama  when  it 
appears  they  always  form  wrong  judgments  about  it  ? 
Why  not  leave  the  verdict  to  the  public  ?  ITltimately 
the  verdict  must  be  left  to  the  public.  Theie  can  be 
no  question  about  that. 

Now  80  far  as  a  play  is  a  bit  of  stagecraft,  a  theatri- 


24  THE  DIVINE   GIFT 

cal  entertainment  devised  to  amuse  the  public,  the 
public  is  a  righteous  and  summary  judge.  The  public 
themselves  will  always  take  care  of  that  side  of  it. 

But  you  will  agree  with  me  that  a  play  to  be  worth 
consideration  should  have  other  and  higher  qualities 
than  that  of  instantly  catching  and  amusing  ^the 
public  for  an  honr. 

Modern  English  plays  are  scarcely  ever  judged  by 
playgoers  except  on  the  count  of  their  instant  appeal 
to  the  mere  amusement  instinct.  That  is  one  reason 
we  have  no  national  drama.  The  literary  quality  of  a 
play  is  barely  in  evidence  amongst  us  and  scarcely 
counts.  Our  audiences  are  rarely  guided  to  take  note 
of  dignified  and  appropriate  diction.  Therefore  they 
hold  it  of  no  value,  and  are  satisfied  with  the  careless 
slang  of  the  drawing-room  and  the  street. 

That  is  where  men  of  letters  come  in.  For  I 
suppose  I  shall  not  be  told  that  the  drama  of  a  nation 
has  no  concern  to  preserve  the  purity  and  vigour  of 
the  language. 

Now  the  errors  of  English  men  of  letters  in  the 
theatre  are  chiefly  in  matters  mei^ely  theatrical,  where 
they  ai-e  unversed  ;  and  where  as  we  have  already  seen 
the  public  themselves  are  already  qualified  judges. 
In  matters  of  literature,  English  men  of  letters  are 
likely  to  be  right,  and  their  influence  and  authority 
are  most  valuable  ;  because  their  verdicts  filter  through 
to  the  average  careless  playgoer,  gradually  raising 
his  standard  of  appreciation, ^and  gradually  persuading 
him  to  recognise  what  is  of  enduring  excellence. 

I  submit  this  play  to  you,  then,  as  a  man  of  letters. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT 


25 


lu  thus  handing  the  play  over  to  you,  I  am  un- 
luckily compelled  to  leave  you  the  dangerous  latitude 
of  an  entire  freedom  of  judgment  upon  it.  And  I 
fear  this  may  not  be  wholly  favourable  to  the  play. 

I  cannot  hope  that  it  will  engage  your  sympathies 
so  far  as  it  touches  upon  present  social  questions  and 
tendencies.  In  my  capacity  as  private  citizen  I  have 
an  innate  radicalism  which  burns  to  reform  our  social 
system,  and  instantly  to  remodel  the  world  after  my 
own  notions.  I  hope  I  have  not  allowed  this  private 
radicalism  to  become  too  obtrusive  in  the  play.  If 
I  may  give  expression  to  my  fatherly  interest  in 
your  Renascence,  I  fancy  I  have  discovered  in  some 
of  its  leaders  a  slight  tendency  to  make  the 
drama  a  kind  of  maid-of-all-work  to  political  and 
social  movements,  and  do  all  sorts  of  useful  odd  jobs 
to  tidy  up  the  world.  This  is  well.  The  world  needs 
to  be  tidied  up.  Things  are  not  as  they  should  be — 
far  from  it.  Even  when  we  have  reformed  the  British 
drama,  and  given  women  a  vote,  some  abuses  will 
remain. 

Now  as  a  private  citizen  nobody  could  be  more 
anxious  than  I  am  to  sweep  away  all  social  abuses  and 
everybody's  wrongs.  But  as  dramatists  we  must  dis- 
tinguish. We  must  sternly  repress  our  noble  rage  to 
administer  the  universe. 

The  Governor  of  Tilbury  Fort  in  the  "Critic" 
could  not  in  his  public  duty  yield  to  the  promptings 
of  his  father's  heart. 

The  father  softens — hut  the  Governor 
la  fixed. 


\      /* 


26  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

If,  therefore,  you  find  that  in  the  following  pages 
social  questions  are  shirked  in  an  attempt  to  sustain 
the  interest  of  the  play,  you  will  understand  that 
although  I  am  a  relentless  social  reformer,  and  have  a 
grandfatherly  fondness  for  my  own  fads,  yet  as 
Governor  of  Tilbury  Fort  I  must  preserve  a  severe  anti- 
thesis between  my  private  feelings  and  my  public  duty. 

My  innate  radicalism  has,  I  daresay,  peeped  out. 
But  in  the  present  instance,  if  I  may  use  Parson 
Lingen's  metaphor,  this  good  nourishing  milk  of 
radicalism  has  thrown  up  a  rich  Tory  cream.  You  will 
have  noticed  that  the  good  milk  of  radicalism  which 
flows  from  the  bosoms  of  many  of  our  compatriots, 
is  also  at  the  present  moment,  under  stress  of  being 
whipped,  throwing  up  a  rich  Tory  cream.  They  have 
their  Renascences  in  politics  too,  which  come  and  go. 

If,  therefore,  I  have  allowed  an  intrusion  of  present- 
day  questions  into  the  following  play,  it  is  rather 
to  cement  the  character  of  the  speaker  than  to  gain 
the  renown  of  a  successful  pamphleteer.  These 
questions  happened  to  stray  naturally  into  the  scheme 
of  the  play,  and  I  did  not  turn  them  out. 

Why  should  I  ?  We  have  a  large  and  increasing 
number  of  painfully  earnest  playgoers  who  hunger 
and  thirst  for  social  and  political  discussion  and 
enlightenment  in  the  theatre.  And  so  far  as  my  sense 
of  public  duty  as  Governor  of  Tilbury  Fort  will  allow 
me,  I  desire  to  humour  them.  On  second  thoughts,  I 
will  stretch  a  point  to  please  them. 

The  father  softens — and  the  Governor 
Will  think  it  ov&r. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  27 

The  great  anti-burgling  play,  which  Mr.  Puff 
designed  with  the  idea  of  showing  housebreaking 
in  a  ridiculous  light,  still  remains  unwritten.  But 
perhaps  the  theme  is  scarcely  austere  enough  for  our 
pioneer  playgoers.  If  they  will  only  wait  till  I  have 
splashed  awhile  amongst  human  passions  and  follies,  I 
promise  to  set  to  work  in  a  spirit  as  painfully  earnest 
as  their  own,  on  a  most  tempting  treatise  in  dialogue 
which  I  shall  entitle  "  Dumping  Analysed."  I  shan't 
call  it  a  play,     I  shall  call  it  a  disposium. 

It  will  contain  a  fat  body  of  contradictory  political 
and  economical  doctrine,  my  object  being  to  prove 
that  all  the  current  opinions  on  the  subject  are  mani- 
festly idiotic.  I  am  convinced  that,  long  before  the 
fall  of  the  curtain,  playgoers  of  all  opinions  will  own 
that  I  have  given  them  a  great  deal  more  than  they 
can  swallow. 

Meantime,  perhaps,  our  more  advanced  playgoers 
will  be  satisfied  with  the  meagre  and  tentative  instal- 
ment of  sociology  which  is  offered  them  in  the  present 
play;  and  which,  I  am  careful  to  explain,  is  meant  to 
be  accepted  only  by  those  who  happen  to  agree  with  it. 

But  the  truth  is,  I  care  as  little  for  doctrinal  dis- 
putes as  Gallio  or  Fragonard.  And  I  feel  that  if  I 
am  to  coax  you  to  adopt  this  play,  I  must  try  another 
tack. 

The  construction  of  a  play  is  the  last  virtue  that 
should  be  apparent  to  the  public,  and  the  last  virtue 
for  which  the  author  should  claim  recognition.  It  is, 
however,  the  first  virtue  which  the  author  should  set 
himself  to  acquire.     Until  the  carpenter  has  learned 


28  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

the  use  of  his  tools  he  cannot  make  a  cabinet.  The 
better  and  more  seasoned  the  wood  he  has  to  work 
upon,  the  more  is  the  pity  he  should  spoil  good 
material.  And  if  he  has  only  common  or  faulty 
material  to  work  upon,  fine  workmanship  is  all  the 
more  needful  to  cover  its  defects.  Let  him  therefore 
busy  himself  in  his  workshop  for  seven  years,  and  for 
yet  twice  seven  years. 

The  main  design  of  the  present  play  gave  me 
scarcely  an  hour's  labour.  The  scenes  fell  easily  into 
the  simplest  arrangement.  But  the  construction 
within  each  individual  scene  gave  me  infinite  trouble 
and  perplexity — more,  indeed,  than  any  play  I  have 
written,  I  hope  this  will  not  be  obvious,  and  that  it 
will  escape  the  notice  of  any  one  who  does  not  happen 
to  read  this  preface. 

It  is  of  no  interest  except  to  those  who  are  con- 
cerned with  the  intricacies  and  devices  of  dramatic 
construction,  and  I  merely  mention  it  as  a  memo- 
randum for  their  curiosity  to  note. 

The  highest  aim  of  dramatic  construction  is  to 
unify  a  story  so  as  to  present  the  greatest  quantity 
and  variety  of  action  and  character  in  the  allotted 
time.  The  Shakespearean  convention  is  the  only  one 
that  by  its  wide  and  rapid  changes  of  scene,  its  easy 
leaps  across  continents  and  years,  marshals  an  enor- 
mous pageantry  of  action  and  character  so  that  it  can 
pass  the  spectator  in  an  easy  natural  way. 

Compare  the  depopulated  stage,  the  attenuated 
action  of  Sophocles,  Molifere,  and  Racine  with  the 
crowded  and  varied  bustle  of  Shakespeare ;  the  busy 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  29 

hum  that  comes  from  his  univer?al  workshop  ;  the 
drums  and  trampUngs  of  his  hundred  legions;  the 
long  resounding  march  of  assembled  humanity  as  it 
troops  across  his  boards. 

Even  the  modern  arrangers  and  adaptors  of  Shake- 
speare do  not  wholly  rob  him  of  this  richness  and 
fullness.  They  never  quite  succeed  in  pinning  him 
down  within  our  narrower  and  wholly  different  con- 
vention, though  they  sometimes  prove  him  to  be  a 
tiresome,  inconsequent  playwright. 

For  a  long  generation  our  realistic  drama  of  modem 
life  has  practised  an  ever-increasing  and  more  severe 
economy  of  scene,  and  action,  and  dialogue.  It  tends 
to  deny  itself  all  trappings  and  effects  but  those  of 
ordinary  everyday  life.  ^ 

It  has  become  an  eavesdropping  photographic  re-  ! 
porter,  taking  snapshots  and  shorthand  notes.  We 
may,  without  intending  to  depreciate  it,  call  our 
present  convention  the  eavesdropping  convention — 
the  convention  which  charges  playgoers  half-a-crown 
or  half-a-guinea  for  pretending  to  remove  the  fourth 
wall,  and  pretending  to  give  them  an  opportunity  of 
spying  upon  actual  life,  and  seeing  everything  just  as 
it  happens. 

Under  the  eavesdropping  convention  we  have  greatly 
gained  in  naturalness  and  sincerity  of  dialogue.  Our 
light  comedy  still  retains  a  good  deal  of  vicious  smart- 
ness, empty  epigram,  and  funny  triviality.  But  much 
of  our  modern  serious  drama  is  remarkable  for  honesty, 
directness,  and  simplicity  of  expression. 

The  eavesdropping  convention  offers  the  dramatist 


30  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

fine  opportunities  for  painting  realistic  character  in 
terse,  modern,  shorthand  dialogue ;  it  gives  him  fine 
opportunities  for  irony,  suggestion,  and  interrogation. 
It  tends  to  exclude  great  passion  and  great  emotion  ; 
it  tends  to  exclude  imagination  ;  in  its  present  develop- 
ment it  is  a  foe  to  literature.  It  concerns  itself  to 
represent  life  ;  it  has  almost  forgotten  to  interpret 
life.  It  badly  needs  a  chorus,  for  while  it  is  generally 
clear  in  its  presentation  of  facts,  it  is  aptto  be  as  obscure 
as  Providence  itself  in  its  final  design  and  intention. 
Obscurity  of  intention  is  permissible  and  even  com- 
mendable in  Providence,  because  it  generates  unques- 
tioning faith  in  believers.  They  enjoy  it,  and  are 
confirmed  by  it.  But  playgoers  are  baffled  by  obscurity 
of  intention  ;  therefore  the  liberty  of  mystification 
which  may  be  freely  accorded  to  Providence  cannot 
be  extended  to  the  dramatist.  Besides,  when  it  comes 
to  setting  problems,  the  dramatist  cannot  hope  to 
compete  with  Providence. 

The  eavesdropping  convention  is  developing  a  school 
of  admirable  realistic  actors.  We  can  scarcely  go  to 
an  English  play  without  seeing  one  or  two  little 
miniature  gems  of  character.  It  has  given  us  a  body 
of  actors  and  actresses  who  can  render  with  extreme 
nicety  all  those  actualities  of  the  drawing-room  and 
the  street  which  are  scarcely  worth  rendering. 

But  as  the  eavesdropping  convention  tends  to  ex- 
clude emotion  and  imagination  from  our  drama,  so  it 
tends  to  exclude  emotion  and  imagination  from  our 
acting.  Actors  and  actresses  who  naturally  possess 
these    high    and    rare   gifts    are    left    unpractised, 


--%>' 


h      .#  -^^-«^^^ 


^•"-^ 


^t"-.^^. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  31 

and    never    attain   to    a    convincing    expression    of 
them. 

The  eavesdropping  convention  encourages  slovenly 
and  careless  elocution.  How  many  pieces  of  great  emo- 
tional and  imaginative  acting  have  we  seen  on  the 
English  stage  in  the  last  ten  years  ?  And  what  hope 
is  there  for  an  emotional  and  imaginative  drama 
without  a  correspondent  method  and  spirit  in  our 
actors  ? 

However,  the  dramatist  who  wishes  to  be  successful 
will  cheerfully  accept  the  current  convention  of  his 
day,  and  will  work  loyally  within  it,  giving  it  what 
further  development  and  twist  he  may,  according  to 
his  strength  and  experience. 

You  will  notice  that  the  following  play  easily  accepts 
the  eavesdropping  convention,  with  its  severe  economy 
of  scene,  action,  and  personages.  Nothing  happens  LfL^  ''^if 
that  could  not  very  well  have  happened  at  Highgate, 
and  in  the  time  and  sequence  set  down.  I  carefully 
repudiate  any  claim  to  merit  on  this  account.  I  have 
done  it  merely  to  humour  those  playgoers  who  suppose 
that  the  practice  of  our  eavesdropping  convention 
necessarily  implies  the  possession  of  greater  and  finer 
powers  of  construction  than  the  practice  of  the  Shake- 
spearean convention  with  its  thirteen  scenes  in  one 
act.  The  merest  comparison  of  the  two  conventions 
will  show  that  the  modern  one  denies  to  the  author  all 
possibility  of  representing  a  great  and  varied  range  of 
characters  in  a  great  and  varied  scheme  of  present 
action. 

Under  the  eavesdropping  convention   the  author 


M 


32  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

may  crowd  his  three  or  four  half -hour  acts  with  rapid 
and  unnatural  sequences  such  as  are  plainly  impos- 
sible. But  in  this  case  he  sacrifices  all  credibility  and 
verisimilitude  of  action,  and  probably  sacrifices  all 
truthfulness  and  delicacy  of  character.  This  method 
has  been  wholly  rejected  by  our  modern  stage  in 
comedy  and  serious  drama,  and  has  been  largely 
rejected  in  farce. 

Or  he  may  economise  in  both  action  and  character. 
He  may  choose  a  story  with  a  slight  and  simple  action. 
He  may  a  little  unduly  indulge  his  personages  in  the 
inveterate  habit  people  have  on  the  stage  of  dropping 
in  ;  and  he  may  a  little  hurry  up  his  meagre  events  in 
a  sequence  which  on  examination  is  as  unlike  real  life 
as  melodrama  itself,  but  which  his  adroit  handling  has 
shaped  into  a  plausible  and  superficial  resemblance  to 
real  life. 

This  is  the  formula  which  has  given  us  the  most 
successful  plays  of  the  last  twenty  years. 

But  suppose  a  dramatist  wishes  to  do  something 
more  than  present  the  trivial  actualities  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  the  street.  Suppose  he  wishes  to  tell  his 
audience  all  that  is  interesting  and  worth  knowing  in 
the  history  and  characters  of  personages  whom  he  has 
chosen  because  they  have  led  varied  and  eventful  lives, 
and  have  characters  of  deep  and  wide  significance. 
Obviously  the  eavesdropping  convention,  in  its  present 
stage  of  development,  is  a  terribly  limiting  one  to  the 
dramatist  who  has  such  an  aim. 

And  it  ofiers  scarcely  any  opportunity  to  literature. 
Its  cui-t,  bald,  colloquial  shorthand  method  is  con- 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  33 

teinptuous  of  literature.    Literature  is  discursive,  opu- 
lent, abounding,  leisurely.     It  abominates  shorthand. 

I  have  lately  read  a  printed  copy  of  a  current  in- 
teresting and  deservedly  successful  play.  The  dialogue 
was  quite  natural,  sincere,  unforced  :  free  from  knotted 
paradox  and  pinchbeck  epigi^am ;  free  from  petty 
smartness,  and  the  small  fun  of  the  cheap  comic 
paper.  But  scarcely  a  line  in  the  whole  play  was 
worth  saying  or  worth  remembering.  It  was  as 
unsuggestive  and  unadorned  as  the  talk  one  might 
overhear  in  a  strictly  disciplined  city  office. 

Now  all  great  comedies  and  great  dramas,  besides 
being  good  actable  plays,  do  hold  their  permanent 
place  on  the  stage  by  virtue  of  saying  something 
worth  saying  in  a  manner  that  makes  it  worth 
hearing,  and  heeding,  and  dwelling  upon ;  that  is,  by 
virtue  of  being  pieces  of  literature.  Sheridan's 
comedy  remains,  not  because  it  has  nature  and  truth, 
but  because  it  is  the  vehicle  of  brilliant  and 
memorable  and  distinguished  conversation,  n 

In  spite  of  much  good  solid  honest  work  that  hns         )    /T\    IH 
lately  been  done  under  the  eavesdropping  convention,  t    \  M     *' 

will  even  one  example  of  it  take  rank  in  Eaglish  J 

literature,  and  be  continvially  read  and  played  ?    Will    *^ 
not  its  shorthand  method,  which  is  its  chief  merit  in  r 

our  eyes  to-day,  condemn  all  its  works  to  perish  very       ^'  "' 
quickly  ? 

But  the  eavesdropping  convention  is  at  present 
firmly  established  on  our  modern  stage.  In  a  recent 
play  of  mine  I  deliberately  intruded  an  aside,  as  a  legi- 
timate instrument  for  the  revelation  of  character  in  a 


S4>  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

personage  who  wants  to  tell  the  audience  what  he  is 
thinking  while  other  people  are  on  the  stage.  I  was 
met  with  the  blank  surprise  of  the  actress  who  had 
to  speak  it.  The  eavesdropping  convention  being  the 
current  one  of  our  day,  it  is  not  wise  to  confuse  simple- 
minded  actresses  and  playgoers  by  introducing  such 
startling  novelties  as  the  aside  and  the  soliloquy. 
Let  us  then  accept  the  eavesdropping  convention,  or 
any  other  convention  that  happens  to  be  the  least  dis- 
turbing to  playgoers. 

But  we  have  seen  that  the  eavesdropping  conven- 
tion tends  to  check  and  banish  literature.  It  has 
said  some  brilliant  and  penetrating  things,  but  it  has 
said  them  argumentatively,  and  while  it  has  been 
saying  them  it  has  forgotten  that  the  first  business 
of  the  drama  is  to  tell  an  interesting,  progressive,  and 
connected  story. 

Is  there  any  way  of  developing  the  eavesdropping 
convention  so  as  to  bring  it  into  closer  union  with 
literature,  without  losing  its  sincerity  and  natural- 
ness ;  to  make  it  say  something  worth  saying  in  a 
manner  woi-th  heeding  and  dwelling  upon  ;  to  make 
it  the  vehicle  of  memorable  and  distinguished  con- 
versation ;  to  do  this  while  it  also  analyses  character, 
and  implicitly  tells  a  natural,  probable  story  ? 

Is  not  this  formidable  task  the  next  one  that  lies 
before  English  dramatists  ?  It  may  be  an  impossible 
one.  It  may  be  that  our  eavesdropping  convention 
will  never  offer  any  welcome  or  accommodation  to 
literature.  But  it  seems  worth  while  to  make  an 
occasional  experiment. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  85 

To  be  successful  a  new  formula  is  needed.     Evi- 
dently all  the  interesting  events  in  the  lives  of  the 
leading  personages,  and  all  the  interesting  phases  and 
developments  of  their  characters,  cannot  be  crowded 
into  three  or  four  acts  of  present  direct  progressive 
action ;  because,  as  I  have  already  shown,  this  gives 
the  impression  of  incredible  melodrama,  and  allows 
scarcely    any   delineation   of   character.      Therefore       » 
much  of  the  action  cannot  be  instantly  and  directly      / 
presented,  but  must  be  obliquely  reflected  from  the      i 
past  in  sustained  passages  of  kindled  present  emotion,     / 
or  of  kindled  present  curiosity,  or  of  vivid  comment.    I 
It  is  in  these  passages  that  literature  may  find  its   / 
opportunity ;  for  in  this  formula  the  eavesdropping  i 
convention   could    largely  abandon  its  present  curt, 
bald,  choppy  sentences.     It  could,  however,  retain  its 
present   natural    and    sincere    tones    and   gestures. 
If  such  a  formula  could  be  established,  the  English 
drama  could   be  made,  not   only  to  say   something 
worth  saying,  but  to  say  it  in  a  manner  that  is  worth 
heeding  and  dwelling  upon  ;  a  play  might  again  be  L=/**'^ 

made  the  vehicle  of  memorable  and  brilliant  and  dis-        \,^^     \j^ 
tinguished  conversation,  without  ceasing  to  tell  a  story.  ',   i^ 

Mr.  Walkley  has  said  very  truly  that  the  modern  ^j  >  .^^r^ 
drama  does  not  give  us  the  fine  and  subtle  delights  »  "^  9  ^ 
and  infinite  nuances  of  literature  ;  it'does  not  tell  us  ^^^  ,/^' 
all  we  want  to  know  about  the  most  interesting 
people ;  and  what  it  does  tell  us,  it  generally  tells  us 
in  a  crude  and  superficial  way.  •>       ij^ 

Now  many  of  the  delights  of  literature,  the  drama  * 

can  never  pretend  to  give.     But   in   the   past  the 


V 


)o 


/ 


36  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

drama  has  given  us  some  of  the  highest  and  rarest 
delights  of  literature.  To  be  worth  lasting  considera- 
tion a  play  must  give  us  some  literary  delight. 

The  formula  I  have  suggested,  if  it  could  be  deve- 
loped and  perfected  so  as  to  become  the  accepted 
formula  for  serious  woi-k  on  our  stage,  would  give  the 
dramatist  some  of  the  novelist's  freedom  in  dealing  with 
shades  and  subtleties  of  character.     If  men  of  letters 
who  want  to  write  plays  would  take  the  time  and 
trouble  to  master  its  difficulties,  it  would  give  them 
a  worthy   means   of   expressing   themselves   in   the 
.    theatre.     If  our  present  eavesdropping  convention  is 
/     to  be  retained,  the  formula  that  I  am  here  suggesting 
»      is  the  only  one  that  will  afford  to  English  literature 
anything  more  than  a  casual  momentary  union  with 
the  modern  English  drama. 
I      To    be    successful    such    a    type    of    play  needs 
I  quite   a    small    theatre.       We    have    several    such 
theatres  in  London  ;  and  the  Little  Theatre  which 
Mr.  Winthrop  Ames  has  built  in  New  York  is  a  cosy, 
jewelled  chapel  for  intellectual  drama, 
k    (  JL-^v*"""*     Such  a  play  needs  to  be  launched  before  a  specially 
'^--^''^'^  I  trained,  cultivated,  leisurely,  and  sympathetic  audi- 

ence.    It  would  be  courting  failure  to  offer  it  to  a 
haphazard  fii^st-night  audience,  with  no  preparation 
j^_^         -, '-   and  foregained  knowledge  of  it. 
&•%       >/  The  success  of  every  play  largely  depends  upon  a 

receptive  preparedness  in  the  audience.     I  sauntered 
one   day   into   a  Quaker    meeting-house  and  found 
there  an   accomplished   negro   minstrel  playing  the 
tjr"^'--  banjo  to  an  audience  of  devout  Turks,  who  supposed 


t^' 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  37 

themselves  to  be  in  the  Mosque  of  Saint  Sophia. 
The  man  played  the  banjo  exquisitely,  and  the  Turks 
were  in  a  most  blessed  receptive  condition ;  but  there 
was  an  air  of  irrelevancy  about  the  proceedings.  The 
minstrel  complained  to  me  afterwards  that  he  could 
not  get  into  touch  with  his  audience.  This  same 
misfortune  befell  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and  myself  also 
when  "Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel"  was  produced, 
though  I  had  not  suspected  any  irrelevancy  between 
the  play  and  a  Lyceum  audience.  However,  a  sound 
booing  and  hissing  soon  brought  it  home  to  me,  and 
I  have  since  been  wary  of  approaching  English  play- 
goers on  that  level.  The  Hebrew  prophets  laid  the 
blame  on  their  audience  in  somewhat  heightened 
language ;  which  is  what  dramatic  authors  are 
inclined  to  do  when  this  irrelevancy  occurs  between 
their  plays  and  playgoers. 

Again,  the  type  of  play  I  am  here  suggesting  needs 
a  company  of  actors  and  actresses  who  have  a 
sympathetic  apprehension  of  its  aims,  and  who  have 
so  far  exercised  themselves  in  the  necessary  technique 
of  their  art  as  to  be  able  to  give  point,  variety,  and 
natural  fluency  to  continuous  dignified  speech. 

The  late  Sir  William  Gilbert  used  to  say  that  we 
have  not  half  a  dozen  actors  or  actresses  on  the 
English  stage  who  can  effectively  and  arrestingly 
deliver  a  speech  of  thirty  lines,  so  as  to  avoid  giving 
the  impression  that  the  author  is  a  talkative  bore.  I 
have  never  noticed  any  sign  of  boredom  in  an  audience 
when  Sir  Charles  Wyndham  has  been  delivering  a  long 
speech ;  and  I  feel  sure  that  a  careful  search  and  some 


i 


38  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

years  of  training  would  reveal  at  least  five  other  English 
actors  and  actresses  who  might  venture  to  accept 
Gilbert's  most  unkind  challenge  with  some  degree  of 
assurance. 

Such  a  type  of  play  is  scarcely  likely  to  be  im- 
mediately successful  with  the  great  body  of  theatre- 
goers. But  if  it  could  be  perfected  in  form  and 
nursed  into  populai-ity,  it  is  a  type  of  play  that 
our  advanced  playgoers  might  be  proud  of  having 
\  adopted  and  encouraged.  For  it  is  a  type  of  play  that 
\]  easily  lends  itself  to  the  expression  of  ideas. 

And  here,  perhaps,  is  a  fitting  place  to  inquire 
what  is  the  legitimate  function  of  ideas  in  the  drama. 
A  drama  without  ideas  is  empty  and  sterile.  That 
we  all  allow.  But  a  drama  that  sets  out  to  exploit 
and  enforce  ideas  and  opinions  is  of  the  nature  of  a 
political  caucus,  and  ends  by  grinding  out  wind. 
Ideas  should  be  posted  all  along  the  line  of  action, 
and  should  lurk  there  unsuspectedly,  like  spies  and 
sappers  and  secret  messengers  of  thought.  Ideas 
should  be  the  servants  of  the  action.  They  should 
never  control  the  action.  They  should  never  give 
marching  orders. 
^J\    \       k  A  dramatist  will  be  wise  to  choose  a  well-tempered, 

well-trained  main  idea  ;  one  that  has  been  broken  in, 
and  will  submit  to  being  saddled  and  bridled,  so  that 
^,  he  can  ride  it  on  a  loose  and  careless  rein,  with 
no  danger  of  getting  his  neck  broken  by  a  fall, 
while  the  idea  capei's  off  and  runs  amuck  on  its  own 
account.  The  field  of  the  modern  drama  is  strewn 
y'  with  disabled  riders  who  have  hastily  mounted  raw 


■•s' 


f 


c 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  39 

wild  colts  of  ideas,  and  never  got  home  with  them, 
but  lie  crippled  and  groaning  while  their  ideas  are 
aimlessly  kicking  and  stampeding  the  country.  Even 
Brieux,  brave  knight,  fearless  champion,  practised 
horseman,  rarely  rides  home  in  triumph,  but  generally 
returns  afoot,  di'agging  his  steed  after  him.  But  he 
does  get  home. 

Some  dramatists  are  so  enamoured  of  ideas  that 
instead  of  riding  them,  they  offer  them  a  back,  and 
beseech  their  ideas  to  mount  them  and  scour  the  broad 
land.  Wisdom  hails  them  in  vain,  nor  will  they  heed 
any  warning  from  this  small  weak  voice.  ^  'T., 

But  by  all  means  let  us  have  ideas  in  the  theatre.         \  \^ 
.-  -|I  have  peppered  the  following  pages  with  a  few  of  fi^-/^' 

fc*^.'  them.     I  would  not  have  dared  to  offer  a  play  to  you  \  "''^^i      , 

r'      I  without  some  infusion  of  ideas.     I  hope  they  will  be  ^.- 

<"       I  found  to  blend  naturally  with  the  action  of  the  play. 
^  If  they  do  not,  they  may  perhaps  be  accepted  as 

.  /       evidence  of  my  earnest  desire  to  please  those  advanced 

playgoers  who  have  adopted  as  their  motto,  "  Cut  the        f_t./^  * 
bosses,  and  get  on  to  the  cackle."  Z^-^- 

The  type  of  play  we  have  under  consideration  would  y%/i 
therefore  meet  with  your  approval,  inasmuch  as  it 
allows  the  introduction  of  ideas.  And  it  calls  on  litera- 
ture to  smelt  and  solidify  these  ideas,  and  give  them 
a  permanent  form  so  that  they  may  become  operative. 
Ideas  have  no  long-carrying  force  and  sway  unless  they 
are  compact  with  literature.  They  merely  evaporate 
and  wander  into  air.  It  was  because  the  ideas  of 
Burke  and  Kousseau  and  Voltaire  were  compact  with 
literature  that  they  became  and  remained  operative. 


i^' 


40  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

Now  undoubtedly  there  is  a  very  considerable  de- 
mand on  our  stage  for  ideas,  but  there  is  small  or  no 
demand  for  literature.    Who  reads  our  plays  ?    What 
weight  and  respect  have  they  in  the  artistic  and  intel- 
.     lectual  life  of  the  nation  ?     On  a  first  night  how  many 
playgoei'S  watch  if  the   dialogue  which    pleases  and 
'  *^  --4    .      tickles  them  has  any  permanent  quality  in  it,  or  even, 
V^  indeed,  if  it  is  passable  English  ? 

i  Therefore  such  a  type  of   play  to    be  successful 

eminently  needs  the  counterpane  of  vogue. 

Every  play,  like  every  human  character,  has  many 
defects.  The  greater  the  man,  the  greater  his  virtues 
and  achievements,  the  greater,  it  is  most  probable,  are 
his  vices  and  faults.  The  greater  the  play,  the  larger 
its  aim,  the  newer  its  form,  the  weightier  its  sub- 
stance, the  more  defects  it  is  likely  to  have.  What 
holes  can  be  picked  in  (Edipus  and  Hamlet !  And 
by  the  law  of  public  presentation  these  defects  are 
searched  for  by  a  thousand  eyes  on  every  first  night, 
and  unless  they  are  cloaked  by  the  counterpane  of 
vogue,  they  are  apt  to  be  more  apparent  than  the 
virtues  and  excellences. 

O  the  good  thick  warm  counterpane  of  vogue ! 
How  hardly  shall  a  success  be  won  for  English  litera- 
ture on  the  English  stage  outside  its  comfortable 
folds ! 
}  These  considerations  have  led  me  to  ofier  this  play 
■  as  an  English  man  of  letters  before  ofiering  it  to 
managers  and  to  playgoers. 

The  play  is  meant  to  be  played  whenever  there 
appears  to  be  a  public  demand  for  it.    In  the  meantime 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  41 

have  I  not  done  managers  a  good  turn  by  removing 
from  them  all  temptation  to  risk  their  money  and  the 
prestige  of  their  theatre  upon  it  ?  Have  I  not  done 
some  hundreds  or  thousazids  of  playgoers  a  good  turn 
by  refusing  to  drag  them  from  their  firesides,  or  to 
detach  them  from  attendance  at  some  other  theatre, 
where  they  were  likely  to  be  amused  or  interested  by 
less  taxing  means  and  methods  ?  Have  I  not  done 
the  actors  and  actresses  a  good  turn  by  allowing  them 
a  temporary  respite  fi'om  Sir  William  Gilbert's  ordeal  ? 
Especially  have  I  not  done  some  leading  actress  a 
good  turn  in  not  asking  her  to  lower  her  dignity  by 
appearing  in  a  play  where  it  is  plain  the  leading  man's 
part  is  by  far  the  better  one  ?  And  have  I  not  done 
some  leading  actor  a  good  turn  in  not  asking  him  to 
lower  his  dignity  by  appearing  in  a  play  where  it  is 
equally  plain  that  the  leading  lady's  part  is  by  far  tho 
better  one  ? 

Then  there  is  the  Censor.  He  has  censored 
Sophocles,  Shelley,  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Brieux,  Shaw. 
Who  knows  whether  he  might  not  censor  me  ?  Who 
knows — least  of  all  himself — what  and  whom  he  may 
or  may  not  censor  ?  Have  I  not  done  him  a  good  turn 
in  refusing  for  the  present  to  impale  him  on  the  horns 
of  his  eternal  dilemma?  There  is  some  reason  to 
suspect  that  in  this  instance  I  have  spared  him  the 
trouble  of  calling  together  that  dread  conclave  whom 
he  calls  his  "Advisory  Committee,"  and  of  going 
through  the  solemn  farce,  either  of  censoring  a 
play  that  in  three  years  the  playgoing  public  will 
force  him  to  license,  or  of  calling  redoubled  attention 


42  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

to   a   fugitive  fiasco    that  without  his   interference 
would  have  been  forgotten  in  three  weeks. 

Then  there  are  the  critics.   I  will  ask  them  whether 
three  out  of  the  four  evenings  they  now  spend  at  the 
theatre  might  not  be  more  amusingly  and  less  irrita- 
tingly  spent  in  that  kind  of  holy  downward  personal 
contemplation  which  a  Buddhist  sect  finds  so  con- 
soling?    It  is  for  them  to  say.     But   at  least   the 
practice  I  am  here  advocating  of  first  publishing  all 
plays  intended  for  public  representation  would  ease 
the  critics  of   some  part  of  the  intolerable  bui-den 
of  attending  every  first  performance  given  at  some 
thirty  or  forty  London  theatres.     Why  should  not  so 
kindly    and    time-saving    a    custom    become    usual 
amongst  us  ?     In  any  case,  with  the  present  impossi- 
bility of  giving  anything  like   ample  treatment   to 
play  and  acting  and  scenery,  and  doing   justice  to 
himself   in   the  short   hour  now   allowed   him  after 
representation,  a  critic  might  reasonably  say  to  an 
author,  "  Print  your  play  and  let  me  have  a  copy  a 
week  or  two  before  production.     If  I  find  it  worth 
serious  attention,  I  may  perhaps  drop  in  at  the  theatre 
and   have   a  look  at  it.     If   it   isn't  worth  serious 
attention  in  the  study,  it  cannot  be  worth  very  pro- 
longed and  serious  attention  in  the  theatre."     And  if 
the  author  demurred  that  the  interest  would  then  be 
gone  on  the  first  night,  it  would  be  a  confession  that 
his  play  depended  for  success  either  upon  theatrical 
surprises  and  devices,  or  upon  the  vogue  and  per- 
sonality of  the  actors,  and  that  in  his  own  opinion  it 
had  no  lasting  intrinsic  merit  of  its  own. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  43 

Further,  am  I  not  doing  a  good  turn  to  authors  in 
urging  the  general  publication  of  a  play  prior  to 
representation?  And  here  I  am  not  speaking  of 
authors  who  are  necessarily  compelled  to  publish 
because  they  have  no  hope  of  public  representation, 
but  also  of  those  authors  whose  plays  have  already  an 
assured  and  announced  production.  Amongst  the  many 
factors  that  unite  to  make  an  immediate  theatrical 
success,  what  are  the  chiefly  potent  and  operative  ones  ? 
I  will  try  to  put  them  in  their  order  so  far  as  my  own 
experience  may  guide  me. 

1.  The  vogue  of  the  leading  actor  or  actress,  apart 
from  his  talent. 

2.  The  vogue  of  the  theatre. 

3.  The  vogue  of  the  author,  apart  from  his  present 
work.  Yogue  will  never  save  a  bad  uninteresting  play, 
but  it  will  keep  limping  it  on.  And  it  will  cover  the 
defects  of  a  good  play,  which  without  it  would  be 
wrecked  on  minor  points,  or  die  before  it  secured 
popular  attention,  "  Arms  and  the  Man  "  was  hissed 
on  its  first  production,  and  might  have  been  lost  to 
the  stage  if  its  author  had  not  got  possession  of  the 
counterpane. 

4.  The  personality  of  the  leading  actor,  or  actress, 
getting  a  chance  to  express  itself  in  a  striking  way, 
in  a  striking  and  suitable  character. 

5.  Capable  and  dovetailing  stage  management. 

6.  The  novelty  or  sudden  popularity  of  the  theme. 

7.  A  smooth  ensemble  of  intelligent  and  sympathetic 
representation. 

8.  A  happy  relevancy  of  mood  and  taste  in  the 


44  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

first-night  audience.  It  is  useless  to  play  the  banjo 
exquisitely  to  a  band  of  devout  Turks  in  a  Quaker 
meeting-house. 

9.  The  weather ;  the  absence  of  any  public  distrac- 
tion or  calamity  ;  the  absence  from  any  other  theatres 
of  any  pronounced  success  of  a  play  of  a  similar 
class, 

10.  Tlie  desire  of  playgoers  to  see  any  play  that 
is  talked  about ;  their  frantic  crush  to  get  into  any 
theatre  whose  seats  are  booked  against  them ;  their 
sheep-like  impulse  to  do  what  and  go  where  the 
other  sheep  are  doing  and  going.  When  I  was  a  boy 
tending  my  father's  sheep,  as  I  drove  them  along,  some 
old  bell-wether  would  take  it  into  his  head  suddenly 
to  jump  five  feet  high  and  six  feet  wide  over  a  three- 
inch  trickling  ditch.  Every  sheep,  as  it  came  up, 
would  jump  exactly  the  same  height  and  distance. 
How  often  do  we  see  the  public  jumping  for  months 
together  five  feet  high  over  a  three-inch  puddle  ! 

11.  12,  13.  Heaven  knows  what. 

14.  The  author's  bare  work,  apart  from  his  reputa- 
tion and  vogue  ;  his  actual  manuscript  as  it  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  prompter  at  the  wings  every  evening. 

It  will  be  said  that  in  showing  that  the  author's 
actual  work  counts  so  little  for  success  I  have  proved 
too  much.  No,  I  have  merely  shown  another  reason 
that  we  have  no  English  national  drama.  According 
to  the  view  that  is  taken  of  the  relative  importance 
of  the  drama  and  the  theatre,  and  according  to  the 
class  of  play,  it  may  be  urged,  on  the  one  hand,  that 
the  author's  work  is  an  almost  negligible  factor,  or,  on 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  45 

the  other  hand,  that  it  is  the  supreme  and  dominating 
factor.  Unquestionably,  in  plays  that  are  worth 
serious  consideration  the  author's  work  should  be  the 
supreme  and  dominating  factor,  as  it  always  becomes 
in  the  final  judgment  of  a  play — if  there  is  any  final 
judgment,  after  the  first  theatrical  success  or  failure. 
What  I  am  here  concerned  to  estabhsh,  is  the  fact 
that  unless  a  modern  play  gets  its  correct  method  of 
interpretation  by  actors  with  the  right  personalities, 
trained  in  its  own  school,  the  author's  work  and  aims 
are  not  seen,  and  cannot  be  judged  in  the  theatre. 
They  are  obscured  by  the  primary  thirteen  factors 
which  on  our  modern  stage  make  for  theatrical  success, 
and  which  should  be  secondary  and  auxiliary. 

Yet  the  author  is  always  blamed  and  held  account- 
able for  a  failure.  Take  the  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  plays  that  have  been  produced  during  the  last 
twenty  years  at  London  theatres.  Read  all  the 
notices.  Is  there  any  single  known  instance  when 
the  actors  and  representation  have  been  blamed  for  a 
failure  ?  Yet  out  of  all  the  thousands  of  cases,  there 
must  surely  have  been  some  few  where  they  have 
been  responsible  for  the  failure  of  good  woi-k.  But  if 
favourite  actors  are  seen  working  hard  and  doing 
their  best,  it  is  always  judged  that  they  have  conveyed 
the  author's  exact  intention,  and  given  a  full  and 
correct  interpretation  of  the  play. 

I  shall  doubtless  be  severely  challenged  on  this 
point.  All  the  factors  are  so  variable  and  complex, 
and  the  opinions  formed  of  them  are  so  multitudinous 
and  conflicting,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  prove 


46  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

my  contention  in  the  case  of  any  individual  modern 
play  without  presenting  it  anew  in  several  differing 
Avays. 

But  I  may  point  to  the  fact  that  the  same  play — 
"  Hamlet,"  "  The  AVinter's  Tale,"  "  Twelfth  Night," 
"  Othello,"  "  The  School  for  Scandal,"  to  say  nothing  of 
countlessmodern  plays — has  met  with  enormous  success 
or  abject  failure  according  to  the  different  circumstances 
and  conditions  Avhich  have  governed  the  individual 
production.  The  individual  production  which  has 
failed  has  apparently  been  guided  by  equal  taste,  fore- 
thought, and  enthusiasm  as  the  production  which  has 
met  with  enormous  success.  The  play  has  been  inter- 
preted by  actors  apparently  as  skilled,  and  of  as  good 
a  reputation.  In  both  productions  the  author's  work 
has  remained  constant.  Yet  one  production  has  met 
with  great  success  ;  the  other  with  total  failure.  So 
it  must  be  granted  that  it  is  the  attendant  circum- 
stances and  conditions  rather  than  the  author's  work 
which  determine  the  success  of  a  play  in  the 
theatre.  In  the  case  of  an  old  and  well-known  play, 
the  author  is  not  blamed,  because  the  play  has  already 
proved  itself  to  be  a  stage  success.  But  in  the  case 
of  a  modern  play  the  author  is  always  blamed,  and 
lias  no  means  of  showing  that  the  failure  was  due  to 
faults  and  caprices  of  production;  or  to  its  not 
having  received  a  representation,  appropriate  to  his 
class  of  work,  and  coincident  with  his  methods.  I  am 
speaking  now  of  work  that  has  serious  pretensions, 
and  whose  success  entitles  a  country  to  claim  that  it 
has  a  live  national  drama. 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  47 

Again,  if  any  unoccupied  person  with  no  better 
way  of  wasting  his  time  will  take  the  trouble  to 
read  a  large  number  of  modern  plays  that  have  failed, 
and  compare  them  with  an  equal  number  of  modern 
plays  that  have  succeeded,  he  will  be  driven  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  actual  work  of  the  author  is  often 
no  better,  either  from  the  literary  or  the  theatrical 
standpoint,  in  the  plays  that  have  triumphantly 
succeeded  than  in  the  plays  that  have  dismally  failed. 
That  is  to  say  the  author  is  mainly  judged,  not  by 
his  work,  but  upon  a  consensus  of  favourable  or 
unfavourable  conditions  which  are  out  of  his  control. 

For  these  reasons  I  think  that  in  advocating  the 
publication  of  plays  prior  to  their  production,  I  may 
claim  that  I  am  doing  a  good  turn  to  those  authors 
who  wish  for  a  thoughtful  consideration,  and  a  well- 
founded  estimate  of  the  permanent  value  of  their 
work.  Of  course  publication  will  never  protect  from 
failure  any  play,  or  any  individual  production  of  a 
play,  that  has  in  it  no  germ  of  potential  success  in  the 
theatre.  But  publication  does  afford  the  best  and 
easiest  means  of  winnowing  the  wheat  from  the  chaff, 
and  of  judging  whether  a  play  has  any  claims  to  serious 
consideration,  that  is  to  rank  as  literature.  What 
pride  can  English  dramatists  take  in  their  art,  what 
rank  can  they  claim  for  their  calling  while  a  shrewd 
collector  of  first  editions  can  taunt  them  with  the 
fact  that  in  possessing  the  first  editions  of  Sheridan's 
and  Goldsmith's  plays  he  has  garnered  all  the  harvest 
of  the  English  drama  for  two  centuries  ? 

Further,  publication,  either  before  or  after  produc- 


48  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

iion,  cannot  be  shown  to  have  damaged  the  success  of 
any  play  on  the  boards ;  rather,  indeed,  it  may  claim 
in  some  instances  to  have  secured  or  assisted  a  follow- 
ing theatrical  production.  Therefore  I  think  it  must 
be  conceded  that  I  am  also  doing  a  good  turn  to 
dramatic  authors. 

Thus  it  appears  that  in  publishing  this  play  before 
offering  it  to  managers  and  the  public  I  have  inci- 
dentally done  a  good  turn  to  everybody  connected  with 
the  theatre  and  the  drama ;  to  managers,  playgoers, 
actors  and  actresses,  to  the  Censor  of  plays  and  his 
advisory  committee,  to  dramatic  critics,  and  to 
dramatic  authors.  I  am  amazed  to  discover  that  I 
am  possessed  of  such  a  vast  amount  of  all-round 
benevolence. 

In  our  judgment  of  acting  we  have  an  amiable 
unwritten  rule  which  runs  to  the  effect  that  if  any 
actor  is  found  to  be  kind  to  his  mother ;  or  to  possess 
an  agreeable  social  manner ;  or  if  he  is  a  manager ; 
or  if  he  modestly  boasts  that  he  always  produces  plays 
with  a  glaringly  high  moral  or  religious  purpose ;  or 
if  he  prints  his  name  in  very  large  letters — he  may 
on  any  of  these  counts  be  forgiven  for  showing  us  a 
I'easonable  amount  of  bad  acting.  I  hope  that  this 
charitable  rule  of  judgment  may  in  time  be  so  far 
widened  as  to  include  dramatic  authors  within  its 
scope,  and  I  humbly  suggest  that  such  a  vast  amount 
of  all-round  benevolence  as  I  have  here  displayed 
may  plead  for  my  forgiveness  if  I  have  written  a 
bad  play. 

I  fear  it  will  have  occurred  to  you  that  this  over- 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT  49 

flowing  benevolence  of  mine  might  very  well  have 
been  extended  so  far  as  to  spare  you  this  dedication. 
And  that  way  my  natural  goodness  of  heart  inclined 
me.  But  rumours  of  my  demise  have  been  spread  on 
both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  There  is  considerable 
uncertainty  about  the  matter,  so  much  so  that,  as 
you  see,  I  have  become  infected  with  doubt  myself. 
I  hope,  therefore,  you  will  excuse  me  for  taking  this 
opportunity  of  again  submitting  the  question  to  your 
better  judgment. 

And,  further,  the  practice  of  dedicating  a  play  to 
some  distinguished  man  of  letters  is  one  that  might 
profitably  be  adopted  in  our  English  theatre.  In 
this  way  the  English  drama  and  English  literature 
might  become  better  acquainted  with  each  other. 
The  English  theatre  might  learn  what  English 
literature  is  like ;  English  literature  might  learn 
what  the  English  theatre  is  like.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  whose  eyes  would  be  the  widest  opened,  but 
some  enlightenment  could  not  fail  to  follow  on  both 
sides.  Every  English  playwright  would  have  his 
correspondent  English  man  of  letters  whom  he  would 
hold  as  a  kind  of  patron  saint — in  all  questions  that 
relate  to  literature.  Every  English  man  of  letters 
would  have  his  trusty  dependent  playwright  by  his 
side,  ready  to  tender  opportune  little  hints  upon  all 
matters  connected  with  the  theatre. 

I  forbear  to  indicate  what  individual  man  of  letters 
is  suitable  to  each  individual  playwright.  But  I  plead 
very  earnestly  that  Mr.  Birrell  may  be  given  another 
chance. 


50  THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

I  find  that  I  have  not  yet  given  you  any  sufficient 
reason  for  accepting  the  dedication  of  this  play. 
I  feel  sm'e  you  would  agree  with  me  in  thinking  that 
English  plays  should  be  worthy  the  approval  and 
acceptance  of  English  scholars  and  men  of  letters. 
On  this  narrow  basis  of  accord  in  a  very  general 
maxim,  and  not  on  the  plea  that  I  am  here  ofiering 
you  something  of  present  or  lasting  worth,  I  once 
more  beg  your  permission  to  put  your  name  at  the 
head  of  this  preface. 

I  repeat  the  play  is  meant  to  be  acted.  Without 
more  ado,  I  push  it  off  into  the  crowded  stream  of 
printed  matter  to  find  what  harbourage  or  sinking 
place  it  may. 

With  great  respect  and  admiration,  and  with  many 
apologies  for  my  recalcitrant  vitality, 

I  am. 

Faithfully  yours, 

HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

P.S.     Et  Fragonard  ? 


THE  DIVINE  GIFT 


CHARACTERS 

Andrew  Cutler 
George  Nokton 
Will  Janway 
John  Trec;anza 
Seccombe 
Sandfoed 

LORA  Delmar 
EviE  Janway 

The  scene  is  laid  throughout  in  the  study  of  Cutler's  house  at 
Highgate.  The  time  is  the  present.  The  First  Act  takes 
place  on  a  morning  in  November  ;  the  Second,  on  the  evening 
of  the  same  day  ;  the  Third,  on  an  evening  in  early  Jane  of 
the  folloivitig  year. 


ACT   I 

ScEifE :  Andrew  Cutler's  very  tastefully  and  carefully 
furnished  study  in  an  eighteenth-century  house  at 
Highgate.  Wide  French  windoivs  have  been  in- 
serted in  the  wall  at  back,  ojoening  ufon  a  balcony 
lohich  looks  immediately  upon  an  old  garden,  and 
beyond  the  garden  wall  xq^on  the  wooded  landscape 
that  lies  north'westward  of  London.  Towards  the 
hack  on  the  right  side  is  a  door.  In  the  left-hand 
corner  at  back  is  a  small  curtained  space  with  a 
wash-basin  and  towels.  Near  the  audience  in  the 
wall  on  the  left  is  an  Adam's  fireplace.  Above  it, 
fronting  the  audience,  is  a  large  comfortable  old 
sofa.  A  fiat  writing-table  is  down  on  the  right 
side,  ivith  an  arm-chair  placed  to  it  on  its  right. 
Thefioor  is  almost  covered  by  a  rich  Eastern  carpet. 
The  entire  vxdl  space  is  occujned  by  hook-shelves 
containing  well-hound  volumes  of  all  sir.es  and 
desci'iptions,  such  as  would  be  found  in  the  library 
of  a  man  with  cultivated  literary  tastes.  All  the 
furniture  is  of  the  best  2}eriod  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  room  has  nothing  in  it  that  is  oiot 
beautiful  or  tasteful ;  it  is  7iot  crowded,  and  gives 
an  impression  of  unobtrusive  richness  and  comfort. 
The  time  is  near  noon  on  a  dull  November  morning. 
A  bright  fire  is  burning.  The  windows  at  back 
56 


56  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

are  closed,  and  the  outside  vnntry  landscape  is 
dimly  seen  through  a  light  grey  mist. 

Discover  Andrew  Cutler  and  Seccombe,  his  secretary. 
Cutler  is  a  distingnished-looking,  intellectual 
Englishm.an  about  sixty  ;  his  features  are  regular, 
refined  and  sharp  ;  his  complexion  is  rather  pale  ; 
his  eyes  are  bright  and  2)iercing,  and  a  little  sunk 
under  a  fine  umvrinkled  forehead ;  his  hair  is 
silver-grey,  his  eyebrov)S  silver-grey  and  a  little 
bushy;  he  is  well-built  and  well-preserved;  of 
medium  height.  He  is  alv)ays  well  dressed.  This 
morning  he  wears  an  easy  silk  smoking -jacket  and 
fine  embroidered  slippers.  He  is  walking  diagonally 
across  the  room,  smokiny  a  cigar ;  dictating  to 
Seccombe. 

Seccombe  is  seated  at  the  tor iting -table  taking  down 
Cutler's  sentences  in  shorthand.  Seccombe  is  a 
short,  dry,  thick-set  man  aboiit  forty-five,  with 
stolid  features,  and  a  laconic,  stolid  manner; 
coarse,  sandy-grey  hair,  bald,  on  the  top  ;  rather 
slovenly  dress  ;  he  speaks  slowly  and  rather  grvfily 
with  a  cultivated  accent.  He  is  evidently  on  a 
fooling  of  social  equality  tnith  Cutler. 

Cutler.  [Walking,  dictating,']  "  The  present  rebel- 
lion of  women  and  the  present  rebellion  of  labour 
throughout  the  civilised  world,  may  therefore  be 
classed  together  as  a  twin  revolt  against  the  detest- 
able and  tyrannical  conditions  which  misguided 
Nature  has  for  the  moment  imposed  vipon  the  human 
species." 


ACT  r  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  57 

Seccombe.  [Writing.]  "Species." 

Cutler.  "  This  twin  revolt  is  wholly  reasonable  and 
wholly  just.  For  what  can  be  more  unreasonable  or 
more  unjust  than  to  demand  fx'om  any  cultured,  self- 
respecting  miner  that  he  should  toil  and  sweat  in 
darkness  and  filth  for  eight  or  even  for  four  hours 
daily,  while  other  members  of  the  same  society  are 
talking  philosophy,  or  flirting  with  agreeable  persons 
over  cofl^ee  and  cigars." 

Seccombe.  [Looki7ig  iip.]  Aren't  you  cutting  the 
irony  a  little  too  fine  ? 

Cutler.  Impossible.  Irony  is  a  trap.  You  must 
always  bait  it  so  slyly  that  the  fools  swallow  their 
purge  and  think  it's  sugar-candy.  Joab  kissed  Abner 
as  he  smote  him  under  the  fifth  rib.  That's  irony. 
Go  on,  Seccombe.  [Walking  about,  dictating.]  "Again, 
what  can  be  more  unreasonable,  more  unjust,  more 
viciously  one-sided  than  that  only  one-half  of 
human  kind,  and  this  the  weaker  and  more  delicate 
sex,  should  be  called  upon  to  endure  the  agony  of  that 
other  labour,  whereby  Nature  has  so  carelessly  and 
clumsily  contrived  that  our  race  should  be  renewed." 

Seccombe.  [Writing.]  "Renewed." 

Cutler.  [Warming  a  little  v-ith  his  theme.]  "More- 
over, this  twin  revolt  is  seen  to  be  inevitable,  and  will 
be  perpetual  from  the  moment  that  labourers  and 
women  reach  the  lower  standards  of  education  pre- 
scribed in  our  Government  schools.  This  rebelHon 
will  not  subside  under  our  present  conditions.  Least 
of  all  will  it  be  frightened  into  silence  by  the  ancient 
spectres    of    Duty    and    Religion.     Clergymen    and 


58  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

moralists  may  be  entreated  to  pack  up  their  venerable 

bogies."  [Pause. 

Seccombe.  [Writing.]  *'  Bogies." 

Cutler.  [Dictciti7i(/.]  "For  it  is  clear  that  to-day 

the  whole  Religion  of  labour  is  to  throw  down  its 

tools.     And  the  whole  Duty  of  woman  is  to  rebel " 

[Enier  Sandford,  announcing. 
Sandford.   Mrs.  Janway. 

[Cutler  shows  slight  annoyance  at  being  dis- 
turbed. 
[Enter  Evie  Janway.     Exit  Sandford. 
[EviE  is  a  very  pretty,  well-dressed  looman  of 
about  twenty-seven,  with  small  heioitching 
features,  and  an  elegant  figure,  wrapped  in 
expensive  furs. 
EviE.  Good-morning,  Guardy.  [Kissing  him. 

Cutler.  Good-morning,  my  dear. 
Evie,  Good-morning,  Mr.  Seccombe. 
Seccombe.  Good-morning. 

Evie.  [To  Cutler.]  Don't  tell  me  you're  busy, 
because  you  mustn't  be,  just  now. 

Cutler.  I  was  just  giving  down  an  article. 
Evie.  It  can  wait  for  half  an  hour?     I'm  sure  it 
can. 

Cutler.  [With  a  little  rueful  look  at  Seccombe.] 
Seccombe,  would  you  mind  stepping  into  the  next 
room  ? 

Seccombe,  Certainly.  [Exit, 

Cutler.  I  thought  you'd  gone  back  to  Oakminster. 
Evie.  So  we  did. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  69 

Cutler.  Up  in  town  again  ? 

EviE.  Yes. 

Cutler.  You  seem  to  be  having  a  good  time  of  it. 

EviE.  [Bittei^ly.]  You  think  so?  [With  conviction.] 
Guardy,  there  isn't  a  more  miserable  woman  in 
London  than  I  am. 

Cutler.  [Looks  at  her  for  a  onoment.]  Well,  appear- 
ances are  deceptive. 

Evie.  But  I  am ;  utterly  miserable,  utterly 
wretched. 

Cutler.  Been  having  another  tiff  with  Will  ? 

Evie.  Tiff?  We  had  a  final  quarrel  the  night 
before  last,  and  a  final  understanding  yesterday 
morning. 

Cutler.  Then  matters  have  reached  a  stable 
equilibrium  ? 

Evie.  Please  don't  chaff  me.  I've  come  to  you  as 
my  guardian,  because  I  feel  sure  your  sympathies 
will  be  on  my  side.  [S'he  looks  at  him  covertly;  he 
does  not  reply.]  Aren't  they  ?  [  Goes  to  him  very  affec- 
tionately ;  throios  him  a  2^'>^6tty,  hewitching  look  of 
entreaty.]  They  ought  to  be. 

Cutler.  Certainly,  my  dear  ;  of  course  my  sympa- 
thies are  on  your  side.  [Evie  kisses  him  affectionately.] 
Now,  this  quarrel  with  Will — what's  it  all  about? 

Evie.  Stanislas  Karlinski  and  Madame  Schne- 
berger  were  giving  a  concei't  at  Oakminsterthe  night 
before  last.  So  I  booked  places  for  Will  and  myself, 
went  up  to  their  hotel,  and  got  them  to  promise  to 
dine  with  us  before  the  concert.  I  told  Will  we 
should  have  to  sit  down  punctually  at  a  quarter  to 


60  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

seven,  and  asked  him  to  get  home  from  the  factory 
and  dress  in  time.  Well,  a  quarter  to  seven  came, 
and  no  Will.  So  we  sat  down — just  four  or  five 
dainty  little  courses.  At  a  quarter  past  seven.  Will 
turned  up  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pumphrey — all  in 
morning  dress. 

Cutler.  Who  are  the  Pumphreys  ? 

EviE.  Business  friends  of  Will's,  rolling  in  money 
— the  dullest  and  stupidest  old  fossils.  Think  of  the 
British  Museum,  think  of  "  God  Save  the  King," 
think  of  roast  beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding,  and  you've 
got  the  Pumphreys. 

Cutler.  I've  got  them. 

EviE,  Don't  you  think  it  was  in  very  bad  taste  of 
Will  to  bring  people  like  the  Pumphreys  to  meet 
Stanislas  Karlinski  and  Schneberger  ? 

Cutler.  He  certainly  oughtn't  to  bring  people  to 
dinner  without  letting  you  know. 

EviE.  He  did  it  simply  to  annoy  me,  and  humiliate 
me  before  my  friends. 

Cutler.  Oh,  I  can't  think  that  of  Will, 

EviE.  But  he  did.  He  knows  my  sensitive  nature  ; 
and  he  constantly  does  things  like  that,  merely  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  me  writhe  and  quiver.  I  feel 
like  some  poor,  frightened  little  bird  in  the  grasp  of  a 
cruel  boy. 

Cutler.  You  don't  look  like  it, 

EviE.  [Looks  at  him.]  Ah,  my  dear  Guai'dy,  you've 
only  seen  the  outside  of  my  married  life  ! 

Cutler.  Well,  about  this  dinner — what  did  you 
do? 


ACT  I  THE   DIVINE  GIFT  61 

EviE.  I  made  the  best  of  it,  as  I  always  do.  I 
explained  the  situation  to  Karlinski  and  Schneberger 
iu  French,  and  apologized  to  them.  Will  immediately 
contradicted  me  in  English,  and  apologized  for  me  to 
the  Pumphreys. 

Cutler.  What  happened  then  ? 

EviE.  After  that  I  let  things  take  their  course. 
When  I  tried  to  make  myself  agreeable  to  Mrs. 
Pumphrey,  Will  sat  and  scowled  at  Stanislas 
Karlinski.  When  I  asked  the  servants  to  hurry 
with  our  souffle.  Will  told  them  to  bring  up 
the  cold  veal-and-ham  pie.  Can  you  imagine  the 
situation  ? 

Cutler.  Faintly.    What  was  the  sequel  ? 

EviE.  I  passed  it  off  quite  amiably  for  the  time, 
knowing  that  I  should  see  Will  alone  when  I  came 
back  from  the  concert. 

Cutler.  And  you  did  ! 

EviE.  Yes,  When  I  got  home  the  Pumphreys 
were  just  going.  So  I  said  "  Good-night"  to  them 
very  pleasantly  and  then [Paitse. 

Cutler.  Then  there  was  what  old-fashioned  play- 
wrights call  a  scene-a-faire  ? 

EviE.  No,  I  didn't  make  a  scene. 

Cutler.  You  carefully  avoided  it,  as  our  modern 
dramatists  do  ? 

EviE.  [Very  reproachfully.]  Guardy,  I've  thrown 
myself  upon  your  sympathy  at  the  supreme  crisis  of 
my  life.     You  must  please  take  me  seriously. 

Cutler.  I  will,  my  dear,  I  will.  Then  after  the 
Pumphreys  had  gone,  you  didn't  make  a  scene  ? 


62  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

EviB.  Not  at  first.  All  through  the  concert  I  was 
schooling  myself  to  keep  my  temper,  because  I  felt 
sure  that  would  make  Will  lose  his.  I  never  feel 
myself  so  superior  to  Will  as  when  he's  raging  and 
shouting,  and  I'm  calm  and  dignified. 

Cutler.  How  did  Will  take  it  ? 

EviE.  He  wanted  to  sulk  off  to  bed. 

Cutler.  Rather  mean  of  him.    You  didn't  let  him  ? 

EviE.  No.  I  said  a  few  cutting  satirical  things 
about  the  Pumphreys 

Cutler.  That  drew  him  ? 

EviE.  Yes.  He  turned  round  on  me,  and  stamped 
and  shouted  and  swore — you  never  saw  such  a  scene. 

Cutler.  You  kept  calm  and  dignified  ? 

EviE.  Yes.  I  was  quite  patient  under  it  all,  till 
he  began  to  abuse  my  friends.  That  roused  me. 
People  may  attack  me  as  much  as  they  please,  and  I 
remain  silent.  But  the  moment  they  attack  my 
friends,  all  my  better  instincts  flame  up.  And  when 
he  called  Stanislas  a  "  greasy  fiddler  " 

Cutler.  You  remained  silent  no  longer  ? 

EviE.  No,  I  told  him  exactly  what  I  thought  of 
all  his  friends  and  relations — particularly  his  Aunt 
Julia. 

Cutler.  His  Aunt  Julia  ? 

EviE.  She's  a  confirmed  gin-drinker !  Actually 
goes  out  to  a  public-house  in  her  dressing-gown  to 
get  it. 

Cutler.  Aunt  Julia  was  a  clinching  argument.  I 
hope  Will  had  the  decency  to  shut  up  after  Aunt 
Julia. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  63 

EviE.  No.  He  raked  out  everything  against  my 
relations,  and  against  everybody  I  had  ever  brought 
into  the  house.  He  bullied  and  raved,  and  threw  a 
glass  of  whisky  over  my  new  white  satin  dress. 

Cutler.  That  was  wasting  good  whisky  and  satin. 
Still  he'll  have  to  pay  for  both.  How  did  the  situa- 
tion develop  after  that  ? 

EviE.  He  almost  struck  me 

Cutler.  Almost? 

EviE.  Well,  he  shook  me.  I  called  out  for  help, 
and  then  one  of  my  fainting  attacks  came  on.  In- 
stead of  trying  to  bring  me  to,  he  sneaked  ofi"  to  bed, 
not  knowing  whether  I  was  alive  or  dead.  When  I 
came  to,  I  was  alone.  It  was  a  quarter  to  two,  so  I 
staggered  up  to  my  own  room  as  best  I  could.  Don't 
you  think  it  was  brutal  of  him  to  leave  me  in  that 
condition  ? 

Cutler.  It  wasn't  very  considerate.  However,  you 
had  a  thorough  understanding  yesterday  morning  ? 

Evie.  Yes.  We  discussed  it  quite  calmly,  and  came 
up  to  town  last  night. 

Cutler.  Will's  in  town,  is  he  ? 

Evie.  Yes,  he  has  gone  to  a  lawyer's 

Cutler.  What  for? 

Evie.  To  arrange  for  our  divorce. 

Cutler.  Divorce  ?     On  what  ground  ? 

Evie.  General  grounds.  We  aren't  the  least  suited 
to  each  other. 

Cutler.  Yes,  but  that  gi^ound  would  automatically 
dissolve  nine  marriages  out  of  ten.  Incompatibility 
of  mental  and  social  atmosphere  ?     My  dear  Evie, 


64  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

you  can't  get  a  divorce  for  that,  even  in  these  easy- 
going days. 

EviE.  Oh  yes,  we  can.  Will  has  arranged  to  desert 
me.  My  lawyer  will  apply  for  a  restitution  of  con- 
jugal rights.  Will  won't  obey  the  order  of  the  Court. 
He'll  take  somebody  down  to  Brighton  and  let  my 
lawyers  know.  I  shall  bring  a  petition,  and  my 
lawyers  will  prove  that  the  Brighton  lady  wasn't  me. 
That's  all.     It's  quite  the  recognised  thing. 

Cutler.  Yes,  I  know.  But  I  shan't  recognise  it. 
And  I  should  have  thought  you  would  find  it  a  very 
unpleasant  business  to  be  mixed  up  in. 

EviE.  Oh,  I  shan't  be  mixed  up  in  it,  except  just 
to  go  down  to  the  Court.  Will  has  to  settle  all  the 
details. 

Cutler.  Oh,  that  falls  to  the  man? 

EviE.  Of  course !  You  wouldn't  expect  the  woman 
to  degrade  herself.  [Coming  tip  to  him  ajfectionatel)/.] 
Now,  Guardy,  you  aren't  going  to  be  disagreeable  and 
try  to  prevent  my  getting  my  liberty  ? 

Cutler.  I  shan't  let  you  go  through  the  Divorce 
Court,  if  I  can  help  it.  My  dear  Evie,  you  surely 
can't  mean  this.  You  hare  what  most  women  would 
consider  a  very  enviable  lot; — a  tolerably  good  husband 
as  husbands  go,  a  pretty  home,  a  handsome  income ; 
you  come  up  to  town  every  few  weeks ;  you  go  every- 
where, see  everything ;  you've  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy 
yourself.     You  ought  to  be  happy. 

Evie.  Ought  to  be  happy  ?  Of  course  I  ought !  No 
woman  has  a  greater  natural  capacity  for  happiness 
than  I  have.     Then  why  am  I  so  miserable  ? 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  65 

OuTLER.  Happiness  is  a  by-product.  It's  a  deposit 
thrown  down  from  work  and  duty.  Do  your  duty 
fearlessly  and  your  work  thoroughly,  and  life  secretes 
a  residuum  of  happiness. 

EviE.  It  hasn't  secreted  any  residuum  in  my 
case. 

Cutler.  "What  about  the  work  and  duty?  It's 
evidently  your  duty  to  go  back  to  AVill  and  make  him 
a  good  wife.  Come !  He  isn't  a  bad  sort.  Many 
women  would  be  glad  to  have  such  a  husband. 

EviE,  Oh,  I  don't  deny  that  Will  has  some  good 
qualities.  He  would  have  made  an  excellent  husband 
to  a  woman  on  his  own  level.  And  [vnth  great  convic- 
tion] what  a  splendid  wife  I  should  have  made,  if  I  had 
happened  to  find  the  right  man  ! 

Cutler.  What  sort  of  a  man  would  that  be  ? 

EviE.  One  who  could  enter  into  all  my  aspirations, 
and  share  my  love  of  art  and  beauty ;  surround  me 
with  congenial  friends,  instead  of  such  people  as  the 
Pumphreys  ;  encourage  me  to  develop  my  own  natural 
gifts,  to  do  something  great,  be  something  great — 
how  I  could  have  worshipped  such  a  man  ! 

Cutler.  Such  a  man  as ?    For  instance,  among 

your  old  acquaintances,  whom  would  you  have  chosen 
for  a  husband  ?     Tom  Standish  ? 

EviE,  Oh,  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  himself.  He 
smokes  the  best  cigars,  and  lets  his  wife  travel  third 
class. 

Cutler.  Lorry  Baxenden  ? 

EviE.  No,  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  tailor. 

Cutler.  Jim  Crawshay  ? 


66  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

EviE.  No,  I  should  have  to  come  second  to  his 
horses  and  dogs.     I  must  be  first  or  nowhere. 

Cutler.  Roger  Fennell? 

EviE.  [DisgiistecL]  Oh  no!  He  always  paws  you, 
I  can't  bear  to  be  pawed. 

Cutler.  Dr.  Kernshaw  ? 

EviE.  Oh,  I  couldn't  be  a  doctor's  wife  !  Their  work 
is  so  revolting.    I  should  always  be  seeing  operations. 

Cutler.  "Well,  whom  shall  we  say  ?  Take  your  own 
choice. 

EviE.  I've  often  pictured  the  man ] 

Cutler.  But  you've  never  met  him? 

EviE.  No,  but  he  exists.  One  day  I  shall  meet  him. 

Cutler.  Not  on  this  terrestrial  sphere,  my  dear 
Evie,  Meantime  I  should  advise  you  to  put  up  with 
Will  as  a  makeshift. 

EviE.  No,  my  dear  Guardy.  Will  and  I  discussed 
it,  and  we  have  made  up  our  minds  for  a  divorce. 

Cutler,  And  then  ?     What's  your  next  step  ? 

Evie.  I'm  going  out  to  Switzerland  for  the  time 

Cutler.  While  Will,  like  a  good  husband,  stays  at 
home  and  gets  the  divorce  ? 

Evie.  Yes. 

Cutler.  Well,  you'll  have  the  best  of  him  there. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  in  Switzerland  ? 

Evie.  I'm  going  to  find  some  restful,  secluded  place 
in  the  High  Alps,  where  I  can  see  things  clearly,  and 
map  out  some  great  future  for  myself. 

Cutler,  What  particular  kind  of  great  future  ? 

Evie.  I  can't  say.  I've  made  one  terrible  mistake 
in  life.     I  mustn't  make  a  second. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  67 

Cutler.  No,  you  mustn't.  But  I've  noticed  that 
when  women  foi'sake  their  natural  vocation  of  love- 
making,  they  generally  take  up  with  something  far 
less  agreeable — parsons,  nursing,  slumming,  female 
suffrage,  dumb  animals.  Mrs.  Leverett  has  tried 
them  all,  and  now,  instead  of  keeping  a  home  for  one 
husband,  she  keeps  a  home  for  forty  cats. 

EviE.  I  shall  not  choose  any  ordinary  vocation. 

Cutler.  No? 

EviE.  I  could  be  quite  content  to  inspire  some  man, 
if  he,  on  his  side,  would  share  his  fame  with  me,  and 
let  it  be  known  that  he  owes  it  all  to  me. 

Cutler.  Why  not  inspire  Will  ? 

EviE.  Inspire  Will  ?    He  is  a  carpet  manufacturer. 

Cutler.  Inspire  him  to  make  better  carpets. 

EviE.  [Looks  at  Mm  reproachfully^  Dear  kind 
Guardy,  do  please  take  me  seriously.  Do  please 
realize  that  I  am  in  earnest.  I  long  to  inspire  a  man 
to  wi'ite  some  great  poem,  to  paint  some  great  picture  ! 
And  you  calmly  tell  me  to  inspire  my  husband ! 

Cutler.  Oh,  I  know  other  women's  husbands  offer 
the  best  raw  material  for  inspiration.  But  that  leads 
to  difficulties.  My  young  friend  Dick  Wilby  got 
Mrs.  Fitchell  to  inspire  him  to  write  his  novels.  Mrs. 
Wilby  didn't  like  it,  and  now  Dick  has  to  pay  his  wife 
a  thousand  a  year  alimony ;  his  books  don't  sell,  and 
he's  saddled  with  Mrs.  Fitchell  in  a  Bloomsbury 
lodging-house.  And  not  a  farthing's  worth  of  inspira- 
tion can  he  get  out  of  her. 

Evie.  I  should  not  enter  into  immoral  relations  with 
the  man  whom  I  inspire. 


68  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

OuTLER.  You  wouldn't  wish  him  to  be  your 
lover  ? 

EviE.  Not  in  the  objectionable  sense.  Romney  was 
not  Lady  Hamilton's  lover. 

Cutler.  No.  I  believe  their  relations  were  quite 
proper.     Like  those  of  Dante  and  Beatrice. 

EviE.  That  is  how  I  would  prefer  them  to  be.  Then 
I  should  know  his  devotion  to  be  thoroughly  unselfish. 

Cutler.  Rather  hard  on  the  poor  fellow,  not  to 
throw  him  in  some  little  bonus,  eh  ? 

Evie.  I  must  respect  the  man  whom  I  inspire.  And 
he  must  respect  me. 

Cutler.  Well,  my  dear  Evie,  I  don't  think  there  is 
much  of  a  career  for  you  as  an  inspirer.  You'll  find 
it  very  difficult  to  catch  your  inspiree.  Better  try 
some  other  walk  in  life. 

Evie.  Of  course  I  would  much  rather  make  a  name 
on  my  own  account.  And  now  that  I  am  free,  there 
are  so  many  paths  before  me. 

Cutler.  Such  as 

Evie.  All  the  arts  are  open  to  me. 

Cutler.  Yes,  that's  the  best  of  the  arts — they're 
always  open  to  everybody. 

Evie.  And  I  love  them  all !  Painting,  sculpture, 
literature — I  wish  you'd  read  the  first  chapter  of  a 
novel  I've  written — the  stage,  music — you're  devoted 
to  music — wouldn't  you  wish  to  see  your  little  Evie  a 
great  musician  ? 

Cutler.  Nothing  would  please  me  better.    But 

Evie.  Now,  you're  not  to  discourage  me.  [With  in- 
tense conviction.^  Guardy,  I  feel,  I  know,  I've  got  it  in 
me — here!  [Striking  her  fist  on  her  hreast.l 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  69 

Cutler.  We've  all  got  it  in  us  !  The  bother  is,  it 
won't  come  out.  The  artist  has  got  it  in  him,  and 
manages  to  bring  it  out.  That's  the  difference  between 
us  and  the  artist. 

EviE.  The  difference  between  you  and  the  artist, 
you  mean  !  [With  intense  conviction.]  I  mean  to  bring 
it  out !  It's  here  !  [Striking  her  breast.]  It  shall  come 
out !     I  want  to  meet  Lora  Delmar  again. 

Cutler,  What  for  ? 

EviE.  I  think  I  shall  decide  upon  music,  and  I 
should  like  to  talk  over  my  future  with  her.  She's  a 
great  friend  of  yours,  isn't  she  ? 

Cutler.  I  used  to  see  a  good  deal  of  her  three  or  four 
years  ago,  when  George  Norton  and  she  first  came  to- 
gether. Lately,  I  haven't  seen  so  much  of  her.  That 
night  when  you  and  Will  met  her  here  at  dinner  is  the 
only  time  I've  seen  her  for  months. 

Evie,  Couldn't  you  ask  her  here  to  meet  me?  I 
scarcely  had  any  chance  of  speaking  to  her  that  night. 
Everybody  wanted  to  monopolise  her.  I  can't  under- 
stand it ! 

Cutler.  What? 

Evie.  Why,  everybody  raves  about  her. 

Cutler..  She  has  a  rare  and  beautiful  personality, 
and  a  rare  and  beautiful  voice.  She's  an  actress  who 
can  sing,  and  a  singer  who  can  act. 

Evie.  Yes,  but  other  people  can  sing  and  act,  and 
have  rare  and  beautiful  personalities.  Really,  I  don't 
see  why  all  the  world  should  go  mad  about  her! 
There's  a  Lora  Delmar  aeroplane,  and  a  Lora  Delmar 
handbag,  and  they've  just  brought  out  a  Mousse  Lora 
Delmar  at  the  Ritz.  Guardy,  answer  me  one  question  ? 


70  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

Cutler.   Well? 

EviE.  Why  is  that  woman  allowed  to  have  nothing 
but  triumph  and  adoration  and  happiness,  while  I 
have  nothing  but  misery  and  disappointment  ?  Why 
has  she  got  all  London  at  her  feet,  while  I  am  buried 
in  a  dull  little  hole  like  Oakminster,  amongst  people 
like  the  Pumphreys  ? 

Cutler.  Ah,  now  you've  got  hold  of  the  Philo- 
sopher's Puzzle.  Why  was  this  world  constructed  with 
such  a  brutal  disregard  for  the  wishes  of  its  in- 
habitants ?  Why  didn't  I  have  the  making  of 
it?  I  should  have  laid  it  out  as  a  velvet 
lounge  for  working  men,  and  a  garden  paradise 
for  women.  And  God  has  gone  and  made  it  so 
different. 

EviE.  And  she  isn't  a  good  woman.  Everybody 
knows  that.     George  Iforton  is  her  lover. 

Cutler.  Morality  curtsies  to  great  artists. 

EviE.  But  you  don't  defend  it  ? 

Cutler.  No,  I  don't  defend  it.     I  accept  it. 

EviE.  And  George  Norton's  wife  accepts  it  ? 

Cutler.  Oh,  George  and  his  wife  long  ago  arrived  at 
an  understanding  that  they  should  each  go  their  own 
ways. 

EviE.  And  society  accepts  it,  and  knows  all  about 
it,  and  yet  runs  after  her. 

Cutler.  Yes;  but  not  because  she  lives  with 
George  Norton.  But  because  she  has  a  wonderful 
voice  that  goes  straight  to  the  heart.  We  are  right 
not  to  question  a  great  artist,  but  to  accept  him. 
But  right  or  wrong,  we  all  do  it.     You  do  it.     You 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  71 

dined  with  her  here  the  other  night,  and  you  want 
to  meet  her  again. 

EviE.  I  want  to  find  out  why  it  is  she  has  got  this 
tremendous  hold  upon  everybody.  I  want  to  find  out 
her  secret. 

Cutler,  Ah,  don't,  my  dear  Evie.  Don't  look  at 
the  roots. 

Evie.  The  roots  of  what  ? 

Cutler.  [^Takes  tip  a  fine  azalea  in  a  pot.]  Art  is  a 
flower  that  bursts  out  in  a  nation,  or  an  individual, 
just  where  the  vigour  and  health  of  the  stem  begin 
to  exhaust  themselves  and  die  in  bloom  and  perfume. 
It  springs  from — [digging  up  the  earth  in  the  pot].  It 
is  nourished  by  the  mud  and  manure  and  corruption 
of  life.  There's  a  lot  of  manure  round  these  roots. 
Do  you  want  to  see  it  ?     [Ttirning  up  the  roots.] 

Evie.  [Turns  away  disgusted.]  Oh  don't ! 

Cutler.  [Putting  down  the  azalea.]  I'll  ask  Lora 
Delmar  to  meet  you,  if  you  wish.  But  you  won't  find 
out  much  about  her. 

Evie.  I  suppose  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  known 
about  her  that's  very  horrid  ? 

Cutler.  There's  a  good  deal  to  be  known  about  all 
of  us  that's  very  horrid.    But  it  isn't  worth  knowing. 

Evie.  She's  married,  isn't  she  ? 

Cutler.  Her  husband  died  a  year  or  two  ago.  I 
never  met  him.  I  never  met  her  till  George  Norton 
brought  her  here. 

Evie.  They  say  she  has  had  several  lovers. 

Cutler.  They  say — anything.  I  don't  know  what 
Lora  Delmar's  life  was  before  she  met  George  Norton. 


72  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

I  do  know  what  the  lives  of  nearly  all  the  supreme 
artists  have  been.  They  make  the  saddest  reading. 
If  you  want  information  on  the  subject,  read  the 
memoirs  of  Rachel,  the  great  French  actress.  No, 
don't.  They'd  only  shock  you.  Read  Matthew 
Arnold's  sonnets  to  her.  Don't  dig  up  the  manure 
round  the  roots. 

EviE.  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  be  a 
great  artist,  and  yet  remain  a  perfectly  pure,  good, 
respectable  woman. 

Cutler.  Very  few  women  can  be  great  artists,  or 
even  artists  at  all.  Some  women  can't  even  be  good 
and  respectable.  But  I'm  quite  sure  it's  far  better, 
and  far  easier,  for  any  woman  to  be  good  and 
respectable,  than  to  be  a  great  artist. 

EviE.  You  think  it's  impossible  to  be  both  ? 

Cutler.  I  won't  say  it's  impossible.  And  I  do 
know  that  some  of  the  greatest  artists  have  wrecked 
their  health,  shortened  their  lives,  and  ruined  their 
best  work,  by  their  passions  and  vices.  Perhaps  the 
Puritans  were  right.  Perhaps  it's  better  for  a  nation 
to  have  no  art. 

EviE.  Well,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  great 
artist.     You'll  help  me,  won't  you  ? 

Cutler.  How? 

EviE.  You'll  see  that  Will  makes  me  a  comfortable 
settlement,  so  that  I  can  start  on  my  artistic  career 
without  being  worried  about  money. 

Cutler.  I'm  not  going  to  help  you  to  get  a  divorce, 
my  dear  Evie. 

EviE.  Then  we  shall  have  to  get  it  without  you. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  73 

You  know,  Guardy,  you  can't  stop  us.  But  it  would 
help  me  so  much  if  the  world  knew  that  I  had  your 
sympathy  and  support. 

Cutler.  Suppose  you  don't  bring  it  off  as  a  great 
artist  ? 

EviE.  I  shall.  I  know  I  shall.  I've  got  it  here ! 
Guardy,  I  do  think  you  owe  it  to  me  to  stand  by  me 
now.  You  allowed  me  to  marry  Will,  though  with 
your  experience  you  must  have  seen  that  with  my 
temperament,  I  could  never  be  happy  with  him. 

Cutler.  I  allowed  you  to  marry  Will  because  I 
thought  you  stood  about  as  good  a  chance  of  being 
happy  with  him  as  you  could  expect  with  any 
man. 

EviE.  Well,  you  see  the  result  ?  Five  of  the  best 
years  of  my  life  utterly  wasted.  Oh,  why  didn't  you 
warn  me  ? 

Cutler.  Against  marrying  a  thoroughly  decent 
healthy  young  fellow  with  six  thousand  a  year  ? 

EviE.  And  not  one  single  idea  in  common  with  me. 
Don't  you  think  it  was  a  little  selfish  of  you,  not  to 
take  more  care  that  I  married  the  right  man  ! 

Cutler.  My  dear,  if  you  remember,  you  were  full 
of  all  sorts  of  whims  and  fancies.  You  wanted  to  be 
this  ;  you  wanted  to  be  that ;  you  wanted  to  be  every- 
thing. I  thought  marriage  would  be  just  the  thing 
to  cure  you. 

Evie.  But  it  hasn't.  Marriage  has  turned  out  an 
awful  mistake.  Well,  I  won't  blame  you,  if  you'll  only 
help  me  to  repair  it  before  it's  too  late.  Don't  let  me 
see  the  years  going  by,  and  find  myself  growing  into  a 


74  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

disappointed  old  woman  with  all  my  talents 
wasted. 

Cutler.  [Frankly.]  The  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  you  would  be  to  have  a  child. 

EviE.  [Annoyed  and  shocked.']  Please  don't  harp  on 
that  again.  I've  already  told  you  so  many  times  that 
I've  decided 

Cutler.  Yoii,  have  decided ? 

EviE.  Surely  a  woman  has  a  right  to  decide  that. 

Cutler.  Certainly.  But  if  she  doesn't  mean  to 
have  children,  she  oughtn't  to  marry. 

EviE.  That's  what  I  think.  And,  for  the  future,  I 
want  no  husband  but  art. 

Cutler.  \Walhs  up  and  doion  a  few  steps  perplexed.] 
Look  here,  my  dear  Evie.  You've  always  wanted  to 
live  in  London  with  congenial  society.  Let  me  see 
Will,  and  persuade  him  to  give  up  the  Oakminster 
house,  get  you  a  pretty  little  flat  in  May  fair,  where 
you  can  surround  yourself  Avith  artists  and  delightful 
people 

EviE.  No.  That  would  have  satisfied  me  a  year 
ago.  It's  too  late  now.  I  have  chosen  my  path.  If 
I  fail,  I  fail.  But  I  sha'n't  fail !  I've  got  it  here ! 
[Strikes  her  breast.] 

Cutler.  [Changing  his  tone  to  acquiescence.]  Very 
well,  my  dear.  Will's  in  town — when  can  he  see 
me? 

EviE.  He'll  be  busy  all  day  arranging  the  divorce 
and  other  things.    He  said  he  could  dine  with  you. 

Cutler.  George  Norton  is  dining  with  me  to-night. 
I  can't  very  well  put  him  off,  as  he  wants  to  see  me 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  75 

about  something  important.    Could  Will  come  here  at 
half -past  six  ? 

EviE,  Yes,  I  think.    I'll  send  him  to  you. 
Cutler.  Yery  well.     I  shall  expect  him. 
EviE.  [Very  grateful.]  Thank  you,  dear  Guardy. 
Cutler,  You  aren't  going  out  to  Switzerland  alone  ? 
EviE.  No.     Stanislas  Karlinski  has  advised  me  to 
go  to  Mary  Lambert  for  voice  production.     So  I  shall 
take  her  as  a  companion,  and  she  will  train  my  voice. 
Stanislas  himself  is  to  be  out  there  too. 

Cutler.  Oh  !     Well,  let's  hope  the  High  Alps  will 
clarify  matters, 

EviE.  Oh,  it  will !  I  feel  a  load  is  lifted  off  me. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  can  breathe.  [Suddenli/.] 
I'm  lunching  with  Gracie  Challoner  at  the  Ritz.  I 
must  be  going.  No,  don't  bother  to  come  to  the  door 
with  me.  [Glancing  at  watch  on  tvrist.]  I  must  hurry  ! 
Good-bye,  dear  old  Guardy.  You'll  be  sure  to  make 
my  settlements  right  with  Will  ? 
Cutler.  I'll  do  all  I  can, 

EviE.  Thanks.     [Kisses  him.]  [Exit. 

Cutler.  [Calls  off  at  the  ojien  door.]  Seccombe  ! 

[Looks  at  his  hands,  lohich  are  dirty  from  the 
earth  in  the  flower -pot ;  turns  up  his  coat 
sleeves  ;  opens  curtains  in  corner.    A  wash- 
basin is  behind  them  ;  he  proceeds  to  wash 
his  hands,  leaving  curtains  apart. 
[Seccombe  enters  and  seats  himself  at  table. 
Sharpens  his  2^encil. 
Cutler.  [Wanhing  his   hands.]    Tiresome   hussies, 
women ! 


76  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

Seccombe.  They  haven't  bothered  me  much  since 
I  was  twenty-five. 

Cutler.  Ah,  you  were  engaged  once. 

Seccombe.  Yes.  I  found  out  I'd  let  myself  in  for 
it.  She  threatened  me  with  a  breach  of  promise,  so 
I  paid  down  my  three  hundred  pounds  like  a  man 
and  got  out  of  it. 

Cutler.  [Co)nes  out,  draws  curtains  together,  turns 
down  his  coat  sleeves.]  Now,  let's  get  on. 

Seccombe.  I'm  ready. 

Cutler.  [Walking  up  and  down,  dictating.]  "To 
sum  up,  this  twin  revolt  of  labour  and  woman  is  then 
a  rebellion  of  more  than  one-half  of  civilised  mankind 
against  the  fundamental  laws  and  conditions  of  human 
existence.     What  is  the  remedy  ?  " 

Seccombe.  [Writijig.]  "  Remedy." 

Cutler.  "  Clearly  to  change  those  fundamental 
laws  and  conditions.  Nature  is  the  author  of  them. 
To  her  then  we  must  address  our  appeal." 

Seccombe.  "  Appeal." 

Cutler.  "  All  Beneficent  Goddess,  we  beseech  Thee 
to  change  the  present  order  of  the  universe,  which 
weighs  so  grievously  on  the  feeble,  the  diseased,  and 
the  worthless.  Especially  do  we  entreat  Thee  to 
revoke  Thy  cruel  command  to  them  to  beget  their 
like,  which  mocks  all  our  charity,  defeats  all  our 
legislation,  and  encumbers  us  with  ever-increasing 
misery  and  disorder.  Cast  a  pitying  eye  on  our 
distressed  politicians,  who,  finding  Thy  present  laws 
inhuman  and  unworkable,  are  laboriously  engaged  in 
voting  against  them,  and  will  in  any  case  continue  to 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  77 

shut  their  eyes  to  them.  Dear  Goddess,  ordain  some 
gentler  dispensation  for  the  governance  of  this  planet. 
Hasten  a  millennium  of  blessedness  and  comfort  for 
everybody  who  can't  and  won't  work  himself,  and 
won't  let  anybody  else." 

Seccombe.  If  this  gets  into  the  labour  papers,  they'll 
burn  you  in  effigy. 

Cutler.  Many  excellent  theologians  have  been 
burnt  in  the  flesh  for  airing  unintelligible  dogmas. 
I  mustn't  mind  being  burnt  in  effigy  for  warning 
my  working  men  friends  off  a  mirage.     Proceed. 

Seccombe.  Ready. 

Cutler.  [Dictating.}  "  It  cannot  be  doubted  that 
the  Beneficent  Goddess  will  hearken  to  our  petition. 
She  cannot  have  doomed  the  vast  majority  of  mankind 
to  constant  and  irksome  toil.  She  cannot  mean  what 
she  says.  She'll  think  better  of  it.  And  the  moment 
Nature  changes  her  methods,  our  labour  troubles  will 
automatically  disappear." 

Seccombe.  [Writing.]  "  Disappear." 

Cutler,  "  For  the  widely  spread  rebellion  amongst 
women,  an  equally  sure  and  easy  remedy  seems  to  be 
at  hand.  The  present  inferior  position  of  women  is 
dii'ectly  traceable  to  the  disagreeable  necessity  which 
is  at  present  laid  upon  them  of  becoming  mothers. 
This  necessity  once  removed,  their  status  will  be 
immediately  raised  to  that  of  perfect  equality  with  men. 
Here  again  we  have  simply  to  circumvent,  or  change 
a  manifestly  cruel  and  unjust  decree  of  Nature." 

Seccombe.  "  Nature." 

Cutler.  "  Happily  the  recent  triumphs  of  science 


78  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

warrant  us  in  hoping  that  a  less  clumsy  and  unmen- 
tionable means  will  soon  be  discovered  of  perpetuating 
the  human  race." 

Seccombe.  "  Perpetuating  the  human  race," 

Cutler.  "  Already  we  may  discern  amongst  civilized 
peoples  some  indications  of  the  development  of  a  neuter 
sex.  If  these  indications  are  to  be  trusted,  we  are 
justified  in  looking  forward  to  a  period  when  the 
present  disabilities  and  discontent  of  women  will 
vanish  in  the  establishment  of  a  human  sexual 
economy  founded  on  the  model  of  the  beehive." 

Seccombe.  •'  Model  of  the  beehive." 

Cutler.  "  The  gain  to  human  happiness,  human 
sanity,  human  progress,  the  relief  to  our  nerves, 
which  will  follow  this  desirable  innovation  cannot  be 
estimated.  For  the  first  time  in  its  history  the  human 
race  will  be  able  to  devote  itself  to  serious  afiaii's. 
Once  eliminate  this  wasteful  pastime,  this  cheating 
folly   that   we  call   love   from   our   daily  lives,  and 

we 

[Enter  Sandford. 

Sandford.  [An7iounces.]  Madame  Lora  Delmar, 

[Enter  Lora  Delmar. 

[Exit  Sandford. 

[Lora  Delmar  is  a  rather  tall,  dark  woman, 
about  thirty-Jive,  with  striking  rather  than 
heauliful  features.  She  has  large  sad  eyes, 
a  full  sinuous  mouth,  and  a  fine  calm  brow. 
Her  face  gives  the  impression  that  she  has 
lived,  and  loved,  and  suffered.    Her  figure 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  79 

is  elegant  and  supple.  She  is  beautifully 
hut  quietly  and  tastefully  dressed. 

LoRA.  Good-morning,  dear  sage.  [^Shaking  hands.'\ 
You're  busy  1 

Cutler.  Never,  when  you  can  talk  or  sing  to  me. 

LoEA.  You  said  I  might  always  come  in.  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Seccombe. 

Seccombe.  \^Has  risen.']  Good  morning,  Madame. 
\Goes  to  door.]  Shall  I  wait  ? 

Cutler.  No,  come  in  after  lunch.     [Exit  Seccombe. 

Cutler.  I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  I  thought  you 
were  away  in  the  provinces.  [^LooTcs  at  her.]  What  has 
brought  you  to  town  ? 

LoRA.  Oh,  I'm  so  unhappy,  dear  sage.  My  heart 
is  just  dead  within  me.     No,  it  isn't.     I  wish  it  was. 

Cutler.  Poor  child  of  the  storm !  What's  the 
matter  ?     George  ? 

LoRA.  [Just  nods^  He's  torturing  me  to  death  by 
inches.     You  don't  mind  my  coming  to  you  ? 

Cutler.  [Very  sympathetically.]  No!  No!  Tell  me 
all  about  it. 

LoRA.  Thanks.  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you,  but 
I've  no  one  else.  I've  kept  it  shut  up  here  for  weeks. 
I  had  to  tell  some  one,  or  let  it  drive  me  mad. 

Cutler.  Very  well,  tell  me.  So  George  is  behaving 
badly  again  ? 

LoRA.  Yes ;  I  left  London  a  month  ago  on  my 
provincial  tour.  He  promised  to  join  me  in  two  or 
three  days.  I  knew  he  didn't  mean  to  come,  because 
— I've  not  been  holding  him  for  a  long  time  now.  He 
wrote,  putting  me  off  with  excuses.     I  wrote  to  hira 


80  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

again  and  again.  He  didn't  answer.  I  couldn't  bear 
it  any  longer — I  had  inquiries  made.  He'd  gone  to 
Paris  with — whom  do  you  think?  Belle  Chillington, 
the  music-hall  Paroquet. 

Cutler.  Paroquet  ? 

LoRA.  She  dresses  in  red  and  yellow  feathers  like  a 
parrot,  and  has  a  vulgar  scene  with  a  drunken  sailor, 
all  screaming  and  swearing.  And  George  has  gone  to 
her.     Can  you  imagine  why  I  love  such  a  man  ? 

Cutler.  No.     Why  do  you  ? 

LoRA.  I  can't  help  myself.  These  last  weeks — you 
don't  know  what  it  has  been—  forcing  myself  to  feel 
and  sing  words  that  meant  nothing — smiling  and 
bowing  to  the  audience — then  going  back  to  a  country 
hotel — the  nights  I've  spent,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room,  with  the  senseless  wall-papers  grinning  at 
me — tearing  at  them  to  get  to  him — making  up  my 
mind  to  go  to  Paris  by  the  first  train, — and  then  to 
end  it  with  a  dose  of  morphia. 

Cutler.  You  won't  do  that  ? 

LoRA.  The  night  before  last  I  did  buy  the  stuff.  I 
poured  it  out,  but  I  happened  to  catch  sight  of  his 
photograph.  Oh,  my  God !  that  a  man  should  have 
it  in  his  power  to  rack  the  woman  who  loves  him  as 
George  Norton  is  racking  me  ! 

[She  buries  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobs.  He 
stands  over  her  and  tenderly  pats  her 
shoidder.     She  continues  to  sob. 

Cutler.  Cry  away  !     Ease  your  heart ! 

[She  gradually  gets  calmer,  and  at  length  ceases 
to  sob  and  dries  her  eyes. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  81 

LoRA.  There!  I'm  better  now  I've  told  you! 
Thanks !  [Warmli/  grasps  his  hand. 

Cutler.  That's  right !  You've  conquered  yourself. 
And  now  !  You'll  have  lunch  with  me,  and  go  back 
to  your  tour.     Where  are  you  singing  to-night  ? 

LoRA.  Nowhere.     I've  broken  up  my  tour. 

Cutler.  Broken  up  your  tour  ? 

LoRA.  Yes,  and  sent  my  people  away.  Last  night 
at  Chester  all  the  places  were  taken — the  audience 
was  seated — I  was  dressed.  I  felt  I  couldn't  go  on — 
I  simply  couldn't,  so  it  was  announced  I  was  ill.  I 
went  back  to  the  hotel,  and  came  up  to  London  this 
morning. 

Cutler.  [Looks  at  her  and  shakes  his  head  at  her  very 
gravely  and  reproachfidly.'\  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

LoRA.  Take  the  first  train  to  George. 

Cutler.  No !     You  mustn't  do  that ! 

LoRA.  Yes,  I  must. 

Cutler.  You  say  he's  in  Paris  ? 

LoRA.  He  was  there  last  week.  I'm  going  to  find 
out  if  he's  there  still,  or  where  he  is,  and  go  to  him. 

Cutler.  No,  no,  no  I 

LoRA.  Yes,  yes,  yes  1 

Cutler.  Haven't  you  had  misery  enough  with  him  ? 

LoRA.  Misery  ?  [  With  a  little  hitter  laugh.]  If  you 
knew  half  I 

Cutler.  Well,  surely  this  ought  to  convince 
you 

LoRA.  Of  what? 

Cutler.  George  Norton  isn't  worthy  of  you.  He 
never  has  been  worthy  of  you. 


82  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

LouA.  Don't  I  know  that  ?  Haven't  I  known  it  all 
through  ? 

Cutler.  You  surely  won't  be  mad  enough  to  put 
yourself  in  his  power  again  ?     After  this  ? 

LoRA.  Yes,  I  shall.  [He  makes  a  gesture  ofhelpless- 
Qwss.]  Don't  you  think  I  know  it's  madness?  [Re  looks 
at  her  2^ityingli/.']  Yes,  go  on  pitying  me !  I  pity 
myself !  I  hate  myself !  I  despise  myself !  I  say  to 
myself  a  hundred  times  a  day  that  it  can  only  bring 
me  more  misery.  But  I'm  going  to  do  it,  because — 
because  I'm  a  woman ! 

Cutler.  No.  Because  you're  a  certain  type  of 
woman,  and  because  you're  cursed — or  rather,  blessed 
— with  a  certain  type  of  nervous  system. 

LoRA.  Cursed ! 

Cutler,  Cursed  and  blessed.  Cursed  for  yourself, 
blessed  for  the  public. 

LoRA.  The  public !  I  hate  them.  I  laugh  at  them  ! 
These  last  weeks  I've  been  singing  wretchedly,  care- 
lessly, without  any  spark  of  real  feeling.  But  they 
applaud  me  just  the  same.  They  praise  me  just  the 
same.  They  don't  know !  They're  geese !  They're 
sheep !     They're  fools  ! 

Cutler.  They're  very  good-natured  fools  about  art 
and  music.  They  mean  well.  And  their  instinct  is 
generally  right  in  the  long  run.  It's  right  in  your 
case.  And  they  adore  you,  they  worship  you.  They 
wait  for  hours  in  the  cold  and  rain.  They  fight  for 
places  to  hear  you.  They  shout  themselves  hoarse, 
and  drag  your  carriage  through  the  streets !  Surely 
you  have  a  duty  to  them. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  83 

LoRA,  Duty? 

Cutler.  Isn't  it  your  first  and  highest  duty  in  life 
to  give  them  your  veiy  best,  all  that  you  have  to  give  ! 
You've  no  right  to  waste  this  divine  gift  of  yours  on 
such  a  man  as  George  Norton. 

LoRA.  I  have  a  right  to  do  what  I  like  with  my 
life.  I  have  a  right  to  give  it  to  the  man  I  love. 
And  it  isn't  wasting  my  gift  to  love  him.  You  know 
how  splendidly  I  sang  when  I  first  knew  him,  how  I 
burst  on  them  night  after  night !  It  all  came  from 
him.  It  was  my  love  for  George  I  Avas  singing. 
Whenever  I've  sung  my  best,  it  has  been  when  I  have 
loved  him  most,  and  felt  surest  of  him. 

Cutler.  But  that's  past.     That's  gone. 

LoRA.  No  !  No  !     Don't  say  that. 

Cutler.  But  isn't  it  true  ?  To-day  George  Norton 
is  merely  cutting  your  throat,  rifling  your  voice, 
wrecking  your  career.  And  you  know  it.  Don't 
you  ? 

LoRA.  I  don't  care.  I  must  go  to  him.  Don't  you 
think  I've  struggled  to  tear  him  out  of  my  heart  ?  I 
can't !  He  has  twisted  himself  all  round  it.  He  has 
burnt  into  me,  eaten  into   me !     He   is   me !    And 

when  I  think  he's  over  there  with  that — I [Makes 

an  angry  despairing  movement.]  I  can't  eat !     I  can't 
sleep  !  My  life  is  dried  up.     I  must  go  to  him. 

Cutler.  [Looks  at  her  for  some  moments.]  I  give  it 
up. 

LoRA.  What? 

Cutler.  Trying  to  understand.  Here  are  you, 
squandering  all  the  treasures  of  your  rich  full  nature 


84  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

on  what  ?  George  is  good-looking,  well-bred,  witty, 
distinguished — I'm  fond  of  him  myself 

LoEA.  Well,  then,  can't  you  forgive  me  for  loving 
him? 

Cutler.  But  now  you  know  what  he  is — faithless, 
worthless 

LoKA.  I  know  he's  worthless.  I  know  he  deceives 
me.  What  does  that  matter  ?  A  mother  knows  her 
son  to  be  worthless.  But  she  doesn't  cease  to  love 
him. 

Cutler.  You  would  have  made  a  good  mother. 

LoRA.  Shouldn't  I  ?  I  often  think  that's  worth  all 
the  rest.  But  I've  thrown  away  the  best  things  in 
life,  and  now — I've  only  George.  Don't  try  to  part 
us.  I  can't  give  him  up.  Ah,  dear  sage,  don't  try 
to  be  wise  for  me.  Let  me  be  foolish  for  myself* 
please. 

Cutler.  [After  a  long  pause.]  Then  you've  quite 
made  up  your  mind  to  let  George  Norton  ruin  your 
life? 

LoRA.  No.  When  I've  won  him  back,  I'm  going  to 
devote  myself  entirely  to  him. 

Cutler.  What  about  your  singing  ? 

LoRA.  I'm  not  going  to  sing  any  more. 

Cutler.  Not  going  to  sing  any  more  ?  You  surely 
can't  mean  that? 

LoRA.  Indeed,  I  do.  Oh,  how  tired  I  am  of  it  all ! 
It's  all  acting ;  my  own  name  doesn't  seem  real  to 
me.    Oh,  how  I  hate  it. 

Cutler.  You  say  that  now.  You  won't  say  it  in 
six  months'  time. 


ACT  1  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  85 

LoRA.  Yes,  I  shall.    My  singing  days  are  over. 

Cutler.  No!  No!  This  is  only  a  passing  mood. 
You'll  come  out  of  it,  and  be  your  old,  eager  self, 
panting  for  fresh  triumphs  and  fresh  fame. 

LoRA.  Fame  ?    What's  a  singer's  fame  ? 

Cutler.  What's  anybody's  fame  ?  Even  Shake- 
speare's, if  one  thinks  of  it  ?  A  century  or  two  of 
growing  renown  ;  a  babble  of  confused  criticism  ;  a 
buzz  of  ignorant  worship  and  applause ;  a  tramp 
of  Americans  to  his  birthplace  ;  a  hash  of  his  scenes, 
and  a  murder  of  his  musical  iambics  by  unversed 
actors ;  then,  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  years  of  fading 
mention ;  a  withering  memory ;  a  mere  name ;  an 
echo  fainter,  and  yet  fainter ;  last  of  all,  millions  and 
millionsof  years  of  oblivion.  Very  empty,  all  of  it !  For 
all  that,  our  pulses  will  jump  when  we  hear  those  roars 
of  applause  you'll  get  ut  Oovent  Garden  next  season. 

LoRA.  [Shakes  her  head  sadly.']  I  sha'n't  get  them. 
I  don't  want  them. 

Cutler.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

LoRA.  I'm  going  to  win  him  back. 

Cutler.  Suppose  you  don't  succeed  ? 

LoRA.  I  must !  I  shall !  I've  won  him  back  before, 
I  shall  do  it  again. 

Cutler.  And  then — if  he  deceives  you  again? 

LoRA.  I  shall  keep  him  this  time.  I'm  going  to  try 
a  difierent  plan.  I've  been  very  selfish.  I've  given  so 
much  of  my  time  and  myself  to  my  singing.  I 
haven't  always  put  him  first.  Now  I  shall  be  free  to 
give  him  everything.  I  shall  find  out  some  dear 
little  place  in  the  country 


86  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

Cutler.  A  rose-bowered  cottage  on  a  village  green? 
Will  tliat^suit  George  for  long  ? 

LoRA.  Oh,  I  can  take  him  to  London,  or  Paris,  or  the 
South.  I  can  always  keep  him  when  we're  alone. 
And  he's  fond  of  country  life. 

Cutler.  "Won't  you  soon  tire  of  it  yourself,  and 
long  for  your  work  and  your  triumphs  ? 

LoRA.  I'm  sick  of  my  triumphs !  I  loathe  my 
work  !  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  it  all,  and 
live  a  real  life  at  last.     How  I  envy  some  women ! 

Cutler.  Such  as ? 

LoRA.  Well,  that  silly  little  chattering  friend  of 
yours  who  dined  here  that  night. 

Cutler.  Evie  Janway  ? 

LoRA.  Yes.  She  lives  in  a  dear  old  English  town ; 
she  has  a  good,  kind  husband,  plenty  of  money 
and  friends — no  heartaches,  no  sleeplessness,  no 
miserable  jealousies.  She  has  never  had  to  fight  for 
her  daily  bread  as  I  have  done — she  hasn't  to 
fight  to  keep  the  man  she  loves.  Why  should  she 
have  everything  to  make  a  woman  happy,  while  I  am 
tortured  and  torn  to  pieces  as  I  am  ? 

Cutler.  Ah,  that  rosebowered  cottage,  on  a  village 
green,  where  happy  peasants  dance,  and  perpetual 
summer  reigns !  Why  don't  we  all  live  in  it  ? 
Even  I  never  get  any  nearer  to  it  than  Highgate. 
Yet  if  ever  a  man  deserved  unalloyed  happiness, 
I  do. 

LoRA.  yLooTcs  at  Mm  a  little  searchingly.]  You've 
had  your  sorrows  ? 

Cutler.  [After  a  glance  into  his  past.]  I  have  lived. 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  87 

But  I've  had  uo  fever  of  life  for  twenty-five  years. 
I  found  a  panacea. 

LoRA.  A  panacea  ? 

Cutler.  When  I  was  thirty-five,  I  looked  round 
and  asked  what  was  the  best  thing  I  could  wish  for 
myself  in  life. 

LoRA.  And  what  was  that  ? 

Cutler.  To  possess  my  own  soul.  I  had  a  good 
constitution  ;  no  overmastering  passions,  and  a  very 
comfortable  fortune.  I  permitted  myself  no  vice,  and 
eveiy  luxury :  the  luxury  of  leisure  ;  the  luxury  of  a 
serene  mind ;  the  luxury  of  clear  thinking ;  the 
luxury  of  the  apt  word  ;  the  luxury  of  the  chiselled 
phrase ;  a  little  love,  much  friendship ;  a  little  science, 
much  literature ;  a  little  art,  much  music ;  the  best 
editions ;  fine  glass,  fine  china,  fine  silver,  fine  linen, 
rare  vintages. 

LoRA.  But  we  can't  all  have  these  luxuries. 

Cutler.  Scarcely  one  of  them  will  be  attainable 
in  a  pure  democracy.  So  I  remain  an  aristocrat — 
the  last  of  the  Tories,  the  last  of  the  aristocrats. 
There's  only  one  luxury  I  haven't  been  able  to  allow 
myself — the  luxury  of  living  in  the  eighteenth 
century.     Still  here  I  am,  passably  content. 

LoRA.  [Looks  at  him  for  some  moments.]  I  don't 
know  that  I  envy  you.  No.  One  hour  of  love  is 
worth  it  all.  I  think  I  pity  you.  What  you  have 
lost! 

Cutler.  What  I  have  gained  !  My  panacea  is  of 
no  use  to  you  ? 

LoRA.  Not  the  least. 


88  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

OuTLER.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  be. 

LoRA.  [After  a  moment]  I  want  you  to  come  to 
Paris  with  me. 

Cutler.  What  for? 

LoRA.  To  help  me  win  him  back. 

Cutler.  Surely  you  are  the  only  one  who  can  do 
that. 

LoRA.  You  can  make  it  easier  for  me.  He'll  listen 
to  you. 

Cutler,  I've  met  a  dozen  men  who  would  listen  to 
advice  on  matters  of  love.  I've  never  met  one  who 
would  take  it.     And  certainly  George  Norton  won't. 

LoRA.  Yes — he  likes  you,  he  admires  you.  And 
his  father  made  him  promise  he'd  always  look  upon 
you  as  his  best  friend. 

Cutler.  And  so  George  does.  And  I  promised  his 
father  I'd  always  keep  an  eye  on  George.  And  so  I 
do.     But  there  it  ends.  I  have  no  influence  upon  him. 

LoRA.  Yes,  you  have,  more  than  you  think.  Ah, 
dear  sage,  do  help  me  !  You  don't  know  how  miser- 
able I  am ! 

Cutler.  You're  determined  to  go  to  him  ? 

LoRA.  Yes ;  I'm  going  from  here  to  the  inquiry 
ofiice  to  get  his  address. 

Cutler,  "Well,  you  needn't  go  to  Paris  for  him, 
George  is  dining  with  me  here  to-night. 

[Her  face  changes  and  lights  up  with 
joy  and  hope ;  her  movements  and  words 
are  bright,  quick,  excited,  eager.] 

LoRA.  Dining  with  you  to-night?  Has  he  left 
her? 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  89 

OuTLER.  I  don't  know. 

LoEA,  I'll  dine  with  you,  too.  Don't  say  you  won't 
have  me.     You  will,  won't  you  ?     What  time  ? 

Cutler.  Eight  o'clock. 

LoRA.  I'll  be  here.  Then  he's  in  London  ?  "What's 
his  address  ? 

Cutler.  He  wrote  from  the  Club,  saying  he  wanted 
to  see  me,  and  inviting  himself  to  dinner. 

LoRA.  I  might  see  him  this  afternoon — no,  perhaps 
that  wouldn't  be  the  wisest  thing  to  do. 

Cutler.  The  wisest  thing  would  be — to  leave  him 
alone. 

LoRA.  Ah,  don't  talk,  don't  talk  ! 

Cutler.  The  next  least  foolish,  to  let  me  have  him 
here  to  dinner  alone. 

LoRA.  No,  I'm  coming. 

Cutler.  Very  well.  It  might  be  awkward  for  us 
to  sit  down  to  dinner,  if  he  didn't  expect  you.  George 
needs  careful  handling  sometimes. 

Lora.  Don't  I  know  it  ? 

Cutler.  I'll  send  him  a  wire  to  get  here  about 
seven,  and  I'll  see  him  first. 

Lora.  Oh,  that's  kind  of  you.  You'll  do  all  you 
can  for  me  ? 

Cutler.  [With  a  sigh.]  Yes,  I'll  try  to  arrange  a 
new  lease  of  unhappiness  for  you. 

Lora.  No  !  No !  Well,  if  I  am  unhappy — so  be  it. 
But  this  time  I  shall  keep  him.  Tell  him — you  know 
what  to  tell  him. 

Cutler.  I'll  pack  as  much  persuasion  as  I  can  into 
half   an  hour.     Then   you  come  in  about   half-past 


90  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  i 

seven,  and  I'll  leave  you  with  him  while  I  go  to 
dress. 

LoRA.  Thanks!     Thanks! 

Cutler,  Now,  what  shall  we  give  George  for 
dinner  ? 

LoHA.  Oh,  I'll  leave  it  all  to  you. 

Cutler.  Well,  I  may  not  be  able  to  mend  your 
broken  heart,  but  I  can  give  you  a  good  dinner. 

LoRA.  You're  a  friend  indeed.  I  must  run  away. 
I've  got  to  see  about  some  things  at  the  dressmakers. 
I  must  look  my  best  to-night.  Au  'voir.  Thanks ! 
Thanks !  [Going  towards  door,  offering  her  hand. 

Cutler.  [Taking  her  hand,  holds  it,  looks  at  her.] 
I'm  doing  you  a  great  wrong 

LoRA.  No !     No  ! 

Cutler.  Yes,  I'm  doing  you  and  English  music  the 
greatest  wrong  I  can  do  you. 

LoRA.  No  !  No  ! 

Cutler.  [Releasing  her  hand.]  But  we  shall  soon 
hear  you  sing  again  ? 

LoRA.  I  don't  know?  Perhaps.  Yes,  give  him 
back  to  me,  and  I  can't  help  singing.  Half-past 
seven,  then  ? 

Cutler.  Half-jiast  seven.  [He  follows  her  off ,  and  a 
moment  later  is  heard  to  say,  The  door,  Sandford. 
In  another  moment  he  returns,  stands  gravely  thought- 
fid  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets;  takes  out  a  letter  from  his  jacket,  reads.  "As 
you  may  guess,  it  will  be  no  easy  or  pleasant  task  to 
get  clear  of  her.  I  am  anxious  to  let  her  down  as 
gently  as  possible.     So  I've  run  over  from  Paris  to 


ACT  I  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  91 

get  you  to  lend  me  a  hand.     I  want  you  to  break  it 
to  her  that  this  time  it  is  final." 

[Shakes  his  head,  sighs  deeply,  with  a  little 
shrug,  7'aises  his  hands  from  his  side,  drops 
them  Joelplessly. 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  II 

Scene.  The  same.  Time  :  Before  dinner  on  the  sam£ 
day.  The  room  is  well  lighted ;  the  fire  is 
burning  brightly ;  the  curtains  are  draicn  over 
the  windows,  and  all  is  cheerful  and  cosy. 

Will  Janway  enters,  followed  by  Cutler.  They  are 
in  morning  dress.  Will  is  a  pleasant-looking, 
round-faced,  well-built,  ordinary  young  English- 
man, rather  over  thirty. 

Will.  [Very  excited  and  indignant.^  And  I'm 
hanged  if  I  can  stand  it  any  longer  ! 

Cutler.  But,  Will,  you  oughtn't  to  bring  people 
home  to  dinner  without  letting  her  know. 

Will.  Without  letting  her  know  ? 

Cutler.  You  brought  these  Pumphreys  to  dinner 
when  she  was  entertaining  her  musical  friends. 

Will.  What !  I  told  her  in  the  morning  that 
I'd  asked  the  Pumphreys  to  a  chop  and  a  bird.  She 
said  :  "  We  can't  have  the  Pumphreys  because  I'm 
going  to  invite  Karlinski  and  Schneberger."  I  said, 
"  We  must  have  the  Pumphreys,  because  I've 
got  a  big  business  deal  on  with  Pumphrey."  "  You 
can't  bring  the  Pumphreys  here  to-night."  '*  I 
shall  bring  the  Pumphreys  here  to-night."  "  You 
93 


94  THE    DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

will  not  bring  the  Pumphreys  here  to-night."  "  I 
shall  bring  the  Pumphreys  here  to-night."  And  so 
on  for  an  hour. 

Cutler.  Time  wasn't  very  valuable  with  you  that 
morning  ? 

Will.  Oh  yes,  it  Avas,  by  Jove  !  I  had  an  im- 
portant appointment  at  half-past  nine.  And  she 
kept  me  there  rowing  till  half-past  ten.  You  know 
how  women  will  hang  on  to  any  silly  idea  that  gets 
into  their  heads. 

Cutler.  They  are  tenacious  of — what  gets  into  their 
heads.     How  did  you  get  out  of  the  deadlock  ? 

Will.  We  didn't  get  out  of  it.  I  said  at  last 
[tapping  the  table  with  his  finger  to  emphasize  each 
word^  "  I  shall  bring  the  Pumphreys  here  at  a 
quarter  past  seven."  I  said  :  "  No  dress  or  nonsense 
— just  a  good,  plain,  old-fashioned,  English  family 
dinner." 

Cutler.  These  Pumphreys — they're  not  quite 
Evie's  sort  ? 

Will.  No,  thank  God.  They  don't  belong  to  her 
crew.  Mrs.  Pumphrey  is  the  dearest,  kindest,  motherly 
old  soul.  And  Pumphrey  is  a  thorough  downright 
John  Bull  Englishman — as  decent  an  old  boy  as  ever 
breathed — puts  me  on  to  no  end  of  good  things  in 
business. 

Cutler.  The  dinner  was  not  quite  a  success,  Evie 
tells  me. 

Will.  No,  by  Jove  !  When  we  got  there  we  found 
Evie  with  a  jowly  Russian  fiddler  on  one  side  of  her, 
and  a  plastered-up,  yellow-haired  old  squawker  on  the 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  95 

other.  They  were  half  thi-ough  some  greasy  French 
mess  that  looked  like  vaseline,  with  lumps  of  black 
leather  in  it.  Evie  had  brought  in  a  job  cook  from 
the  French  restaurant.  She  calls  that  giving  a  dinner- 
party. 

Cutler.  The  French  cuisine  has  its  caprices. 

Will.  The  Pumphreys  and  I  sat  down  at  our  end 
of  the  table,  and  I  ordered  some  cold  meat  pie. 

Cutler.  And  then  the  conversation  became  general  ? 

Will.  I  did  my  best  to  make  myself  agreeable  to 
the  jowly  fiddler,  while  she  glared  at  the  Pumphreys, 
and  made  fun  of  them  in  French  to  the  yellow  old 
squawker.  So  T  explained  to  the  Pumphreys  what 
Evie  was  saying  about  them.  That  sent  her  off 
in  a  furious  huff  to  her  concert,  and  Pumphrey  and  I 
had  a  comfortable  evening  over  a  bottle  of  port. 

Cutler.  And  after  the  concert  ?    More  harmony  ? 

Will.  The  moment  Evie  came  in  I  saw  she  wanted 
to  have  a  row. 

Cutler.  You  indulged  her  ? 

Will.  I  did  !  After  a  quiet  little  skirmish,  she 
went  at  me  hammer  and  tongs,  ragged  all  my  friends 
and  relations,  snorted  about  the  room,  flung  her  arms 
about,  knocked  a  glass  of  whisky  over  her  new  evening 
dress,  and  screamed  herself  oft'  into  hysterics.  I 
slipped  quietly  off  to  bed. 

Cutler.  The  night  brought  wisdom  ? 

Will.  Yes,  we  got  up  and  talked  it  over  quietly, 
and  made  up  our  minds  to  part. 

Cutler.  Divorce  ? 

Will.  Divorce,  as  soon  as  we  can  put  it  through. 


96  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ir 

Cutler,  Won't  you  find  that  rather  an  [swi^s]  un- 
savoury job  ? 

Will.  Oh,  it's  a  dirty  nuisance.  But,  of  course, 
you've  got  to  keep  the  woman  out  of  it.  So  what  am 
I  to  do  ? 

Cutler.  Can't  you  give  Evie  a  little  flat  in  town, 
let  her  have  her  own  friends,  come  up  occasionally  to 
see  her,  and  so  rub  along  for  a  year  or  two  ? 

Will.  No,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  married  bachelor. 
You  know  what  that  means.  No  !  I've  had  five 
years  of  it ;  and  now  I'm  going  to  clear  out  for  good, 
and  make  a  fresh  start. 

Cutler.  You'll  marry  again  ? 
Will.    Not    I,    by   Jove.      It's   too   much   of    a 
risk. 

Cutler.  What  then  ?     You're  a  healthy,  vigorous 

man  of How  old  are  you  ? 

Will.  Thirty-two. 

Cutler.  You  don't  propose  to  live  a  life  of  total 
abstinence  ? 

Will.  Well,  not  exactly  total 

Cutler.  What  quantity,  and  quality,  and  variety 
of  feminine  companionship  do  you  propose  to  allow 
yourself  ?  Don't  tell  me.  I  don't  wish  to  know. 
But  ask  yourself. 

Will.  I  mean  to  go  as  straight  as  I  can. 
Cutler.  How  straight  will  that  be  ? 
Will.  Well,  as  straight  as  a  decent,  healthy,  not 
bad-looking  chap  can  be  expected  to  go.      I  don't 
pretend  to  be  a  saint. 

Cutler.  No.     And  saints  often  allow  themselves 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  97 

considerable  latitude  in  this  matter,  so  as  to  qualify 
themselves  for  admonishing  sinners  more  severely. 
Putting  saints  aside,  as  untrustworthy  guides  for 
conduct,  how  straight  do  you  mean  to  go?  Don't 
tell  me.     You  know  your  own  past  history. 

Will.  [After  a  little  reflection,  hursts  out.]  It's 
nothing  but  one  eternal,  confounded,  silly  mess-up 
from  the  time  you're  eighteen !  If  you  go  fooling 
about  generally,  you  very  likely  get  yourself  disabled 
for  life ;  and  suppose  you  don't,  it  knocks  you  to  bits, 
and  you're  ashamed  to  look  a  decent  woman  in  the 
face.  If  you  take  on  some  chorus  girl,  she  sells  you 
all  round,  draws  all  your  cash,  and  then  throws  you 
over.  If  you  pick  up  some  little  milliner  or  office 
girl,  you  get  her  into  trouble,  and  she  hangs  round 
you  so  that  you  can't  shake  her  off.  And  if  you 
make  up  your  mind  to  cut  it  altogether,  you  don't 
have  a  moment's  peace  till  you  cave  in ;  and  then  you 
feel  you've  made  a  thundering  ass  of  yourself  both 
ways.     So  what  are  you  to  do  ? 

Cutler.  The  best  solution  seems  to  be  a  strictly 
temperate  life  in  youth,  with  constant  hard  occu- 
pation till  you're  married. 

"Will.  Married?  And  then  you  get  landed  that 
way !  And  nine  times,  out  of  ten  you  turn  out  all 
the  worse  husband  for  not  having  had  your  fling 
before.  How  many  husbands  are  there  that  go 
perfectly  straight  ? 

Cutler.  There  are  no  statistics. 

Will.  And  how  many  of  them  have  had  their 
fling  before  ? 

Q 


98  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Cutler.  The  Government  is  too  busy  to  order  a 
Parliamentary  return. 

Will.  It's  a  beastly  puzzling  riddle. 

Cutler.  It  is  a  riddle.  But  every  man  has  got  to 
find  an  answer. 

Will.  I  give  it  up. 

Cutler.  Then  you  drift  about  all  your  life  in  help- 
less confusion.  Every  man  has  got  to  rule  and  placate 
his  woman  through  ruling  himself — or  perish.  Every 
nation  has  got  to  rule  and  placate  its  women  through 
ruling  itself — or  perish. 

Will.  Well,  I've  tried  it  all  round,  and  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion,  "  You  can  neither  live  with  them, 
nor  without  them." 

Cutler.  That  is  the  exact  dilemma.  Upon  which 
horn  of  it  do  you  propose  to  impale  yourself  ? 

Will.  Which  horn  did  you  impale  yourself  on  when 
you  were  young  ? 

Cutler.  The  wrong  one — necessarily.  Like  the 
saints,  I  have  qualified  myself  by  sinning  to  be  an 
example  to  evil-doers. 

Will.  You  never  got  married  ? 

Cutler.  No.  I  looked  round  the  human  Zoo,  but 
I  couldn't  see  any  animal  that  I  desired  for  a  lifelong 
mate.  The  gazelle  had  beauty  and  grace,  but  little 
sense.  The  tigress  had  beauty  and  allurement,  but  she 
would  have  devoured  me.  The  parrots  were  smartly 
dressed,  but  they  chattered  too  much.  The  camel 
would  have  borne  my  burdens,  but  she  had  a  detestable 
profile.  The  monkeys  had  many  of  my  tastes  and 
habits,  but  their  talk  was  scarcely  above  the  level  of  a 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIET  99 

modern  society  comedy.  I  watched  a  little  squirrel — 
it  was  dainty  and  cheerful  and  tame,  but  it  fidgeted 
incessantly.  Not  one  of  them  had  any  taste  for  litera- 
ture. I  hesitated  before  a  lovely  bird  of  paradise,  and 
flirted  with  her  till  I  found  she  was  utterly  stupid.  A 
beautiful  soft-eyed  Scotch  collie  came  up  to  me  and 
nosed  my  hand,  but  she  was  sorrowing  for  her  dead 
master,  and  had  no  love  to  give  me.  Then  I  inquired 
my  way  to  the  Phoenix  cage ;  but  when  I  got  there 
I  found  it  empty.  So  I  never  married. 
Will.  Then  what  did  you  do  ? 
Cutler.  I  had  weeks  and  months  of  hard  study, 
self-discipline  and  self-denial,  with  occasional  filthy 
revels  amongst  the  flesh  pots.  But  I  never  lost  hold  of 
myself,  and  I  never  fell  under  the  dominion  of  any 
woman  for  longer  than  half  an  hour. 
Will.  What  luck! 

Cutler.  No,  merely  normal  masculine  competency. 
That  went  on  till  I  was  well  past  thirty.  My  early 
manhood  was  passing ;  the  fleshpots  were  growing 
more  pleasant,  and  my  descents  amongst  them  more 
frequent.  One  morning  I  woke  and  looked  in  the 
glass ;  my  face  was  a  little  bloated  ;  my  eyes  were 
reddish,  and  watery,  and  shifty ;  my  tongue  was 
furred,  and  my  hand  shook.  I  couldn't  read  "  Paradise 
Lost "  with  any  pleasure.  I  had  what  religious  people 
call  a  sudden  conversion,  I  saved  my  soul  on  the  spot. 
Will.  You  don't  mean  you  pulled  up  altogether? 
Cutler,  From  that  moment.  Sophocles  didn't 
escape  from  the  savage  master  till  he  was  seventy.  I 
shook  him  off  at  thirty-five. 


100  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Will.  Didn't  you  find  it  a  pretty  hard  job  ? 

Cutler.  Not  in  the  least.  Virtue  is  a  mere  habit. 
We  never  know  how  easy  it  is  till  we  practise  it. 

Will.  And  women  haven't  bothered  you  since  ? 

Cutler.  Very  rarely  and  distantly.  When  once  I 
found  myself  secure  on  the  bank,  I  stayed  there. 
And  now  sometimes  I  look  down  into  the  slimy  whirl- 
pool, and  see  the  blind  eels  twisting  and  wriggling  and 
curling  round  each  other,  feeding  on  the  rank 
weeds — I  turn  away  and  look  heavenwards. 

Will.  Yes.  I'll  look  heavenwards  when  I'm 
sixty. 

Cutler.  And  meantime  ? 

Will.  Oh,  I  intend  to  go  as  straight  as  I  can — I 
suppose  I  shall  go  and  make  a  damned  fool  of  myself. 

Cutler.  Is  that  inevitable  ? 

Will.  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Cutler.  \^Looks  at  him."]  It's  strange. 

Will.  What  is  ? 

Cutler.  So  many  of  us  wouldn't  live  for  a  day  in  a 
dirty  disordered  room ;  yet  we  live  all  our  lives  in 
dirty  disordered  minds. 

Will.  [With  sti-ong  conviction.]  You  know  I  should 
have  made  a  jolly  good  husband,  if  I'd  only  married 
the  right  sort  of  wife. 

Cutler.  Such  as ?  Amongst  your  own  ac- 
quaintance whom  would  you  choose  ? 

Will.  Well,  the  right  sort.  A  woman  who'd  fall 
in  with  my  ways,  and  try  to  understand  me.  Evie 
has  never  understood  me. 

Cutler,  Have  you  ever  understood  her  ? 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  101 

Will.  No,  I'm  hanged  if  I  have ! 

Cutler.  It  is  questionable  whether  skill  in  charac- 
ter reading  tends  to  promote  married  happiness. 
Rather  the  reverse,  I  should  say.  Now  this  unknown 
fair,  with  whom  and  for  whom  you  propose  to  make 
a  damned  fool  of  yourself  ? 

Will.  I  don't  projiose  to  make  a  damned  fool  of 
myself. 

Cutler.  No,  but  you  will.  Do  you  think  you  are 
likely  to  be  any  happier  with  her  than  you  are  with 
Evie?  Won't  you  be  robbed,  tricked,  deceived,  pei-- 
haps  dragged  into  some  disgraceful  scandal  ?  You 
have  your  own  set  of  friends.  You  can't  introduce 
her  to  them.  Your  whole  business  and  social  life 
will  be  disarranged  and  confused.  Aren't  you  almost 
sure  to  be  less  happy  than  you  are  now?  Hadn't 
you  better  humour  your  present  situation  with  Evie  ? 

Will.  No,  I've  humoured  the  situation,  and  I've 
humoured  Evie,  and  they  both  get  woi-se.  No  I  Evie 
and  I  have  got  to  part.  We  don't  agree  about  any- 
thing else,  but  we  do  agree  about  that.  And  I  want 
to  talk  with  you  about  the  settlements 

[  Enter  Sandford. 

Sandford.  Mr.  Norton  is  here,  sir. 

Cutler.  Just  a  minute,  Sandford. 

[Exit  Sandford. 

Cutler.  George  has  come  to  dinner,  and  he  wants 
a  little  talk  first.  The  settlements  will  take  some 
time — won't  they  ? 

Will.  No.     Why  should  they  ?    If  Evie  takes  out 


102  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

of  the  concern  what  she  brought  into  it  that  ought  to 
satisfy  her  ? 

Cutler.  I  don't  suppose  it  will. 

Will,  If  it  does,  it  will  be  the  only  thing  in  life 
that  ever  did. 

Cutler.  You  wish  to  treat  her  generously,  I'm  sure. 

Will.  I  expect  I  shall  have  to.  [Gromis.]  It  cost 
me  a  heap  of  money  to  marry  her ;  it  has  cost  me  a 
heap  to  keep  her ;  and  now  it's  going  to  cost  me  a 
heap  to  get  rid  of  her. 

Cutler.  Life  is  full  of  costly  experiments.  Where 
are  you  staying  ? 

Will.  At  the  Lancaster, 

Cutler.  Evie  is  with  you  ? 

Will.  Oh  yes.  We're  dining  together  and  going 
to  the  theatre.  We're  on  better  terms  than  we've 
been  for  months  past. 

Cutler.  I'll  come  to  you  at  ten  to-moi-row.  We'll 
see  what  Evie  wants,  and  then  go  to  Harland's  office, 
and  get  him  to  make  out  a  draft  agreement. 

Will.  Right,    Then  we  can  get  to  business, 

[Cutler  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it. 

Cutler.   [Speaking  off.]  Ah,  George,  come  in  ! 

[George  Norton  enters  in  evening  dress.  He 
is  a  darh,  handsome,  distinguished,  well- 
bred  man  about  thirty-Jive,  with  quiet,  easy, 
careless  manners. 

Norton.  How  are  you  ?  [Shaking  hands  loith 
Cutler,]  How  d'ye  do,  Janway  ?  [Nodding  to  Will,] 

Will.  How  d'ye  do  1 

Norton.  Mrs,  Janway  quite  well  % 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  103 

Will.  First-rate,  thanks. 

Norton,  Remember  me  to  her,  will  you  ? 

Will.  I  will,  [To  Cutler.]  Ten  o'clock  to-morrow, 
then. 

Cutler.  I'll  be  there,  [C^ye^is  door,  calls  o^f.]  The 
door,  Sandford. 

Will.  Good  evening,  Norton. 

Norton.  Good  evening. 

Will.  [To  Cutler.]  Good-bye. 

Cutler.  [Shaking  hands.]  Good-bye. 

[Exit  Will.    Cutler  closes  the  door  after  him. 

Norton.  I'm  here  to  time.  You  got  my  letter 
about  Lora  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  I'm  sorry,  deeply  sorry. 

Norton.  Yes,  it's  a  pity,  poor  girl.  But  that's  how 
it  is.  Natural  course  of  events  in  all  these  affairs. 
Hot  love,  passionate  devotion,  eternal  fidelity  ;  gradual 
cooling  ofi'  on  the  part  of  one  or  both  ;  bother  to  keep 
it  up  ;  infernal  boredom  ;  tugging  at  the  chains ;  and 
then  common  sense  comes  in  and  says,  "  What's  the 
use  ?  You  know  you're  damned  sick  of  it  all.  Why 
not  own  up  and  get  out  of  it  ?  " 

Cutler.  So  you're  going  to  get  out  of  it  ? 

Norton.  I  am. 

Cutler.  Do  you  realise  what  you  are  throwing  up? 
The  entire  love  and  devotion  of  a  beautiful,  accom- 
plished woman — a  woman  without  the  freaks  and 
pettiness  and  childish  vanities  of  her  sex — a  large 
generous  creature — a  woman  who  has  London  at  her 
feet,  and  could  choose  her  lovers  by  the  dozen — a  great 


104  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

artist,  with  her  divine  gift — something  altogether 
beyond  and  away  from  the  ordinary  woman 

Norton.  Oh,  come  down  to  bedrock,  and  a  woman's 
a  woman. 

Cutler.  Ah,  then  you  don't  realize. 

Norton.  Yes,  I  do.  Lora  is  a  prize  for  any  man ; 
and  I've  been  very  lucky  to  find  a  woman  who  has 
helped  me  to  spend  four  years  very  pleasantly.  But 
the  four  years  have  gone ;  and  now  I  have  the 
wretched  bad  taste  not  to  wish  for  another  four 
years,  or  four  weeks,  or  four  days. 

Cutler.  You're  right.  You  have  wretched  bad  taste. 

Norton.  I  know  it !     I  know  it ! 

Cutler.  And  you'i-e  making  a  great  mistake. 

Norton.  I  feel  sure  I  am.  Who  doesn't  with 
women  ? 

Cutler.  She  has  given  you  the  four  best  years  of 
her  life.  You  have  taken  from  her  the  power  to  love 
another  man  deeply.  Aren't  you  bound  to  stand  by 
her,  and  give  her  some  show  of  constancy  and  affec- 
tion ?     Don't  you  owe  her  that  at  least  ? 

Norton,  I  do  1  And  a  good  deal  more !  And  I 
can't  pay!  That's  the  deuce  of  it.  That's  why  I've 
come  to  you  to  help  me  wind  up  the  affair. 

Cutler.  Hadn't  you  better  see  her  yourself  2 

Norton,  What's  the  use  ? 

Cutler.  You  must  come  to  some  understanding, 
and  perhaps — who  knows  ?  When  you  see  her  and 
talk  to  her — "  On  revient  toujours  k  ses  anciennes 
amours." 

Norton.   No,  not  toujours.     Sometimes — after  a 


ACT  11  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  105 

long  ramble  away  from  them.    But  in  this  instance — 
[shaking  his  head] — the  proverb  won't  fit. 

Cutler.  At  any  rate,  see  her.  You  can't  sneak 
away  from  her,  without  offering  her  some  explanation 
of  your  conduct. 

Norton.  Oh,  as  to  my  conduct,  it's  damned  bad, 
and  there's  no  explanation  of  it.  But  I  don't  want 
to  sneak  away.  I'm  thinking  how  I  can  let  her  down 
gently.  If  I  were  to  see  her,  I  should  only  have  a 
bad  half-hour  ;  she'd  have  a  worse.  I  should  merely 
feel  uncomfortable,  and  own  I'm  a  skunk.  Bvit  she'd 
fret  her  heart  to  pieces,  open  up  all  the  old  wounds, 
and — poor  girl ! 

Cutler.  Still,  you'd  better  meet  her. 

Norton.  No,  I  want  to  spare  her.  I  have  prepared 
her  a  little.  I  dare  say  she  guesses,  and  if  you  were  to 
see  her  and  soften  it  as  far  as  you  can Black- 
guard me  as  much  as  you  like ;  I  deserve  it. 

Cutler.  You  do. 

Norton.  She'll  be  far  better  off  without  me 

Cutler.  She  will,  undoubtedly. 

Norton.  Well,  that's  the  line  to  take.  You 
know  how  to  put  it.  Get  her  to  see  it  in  that 
light. 

Cutler,  If  she  only  could ! 

Norton.  Well,  then,  you'll  see  her  ? 

Cutler.  No  ;   I'll  arrange  for  her  to  meet  you 

Norton.  Good  Lord,  no !  What  can  be  the  use, 
except  to  give  her  pain  ? 

[Cutler  shakes  his  head,  makes  a  grimace  of 
texation,  walks  about  the  room,  takes  out 


106  THE  DIVINE  GIFr  act  ii 

his  watch,  looks  at  it,  puts  it  hack,  looks  at 
Norton,  who  is  smoking  a  cigarette. 

OuTLEE.  Thei'e's  another  woman  ? 

Norton.  Well,  naturally. 

Cutler.  "What  sort  of  a  woman?  Don't  tell  me, 
I've  no  wish  to  dip  my  fingers  in  that  bowl.  But  ask 
yourself.  You're  giving  up  Lora  Delmar — for  what  ? 
What's  the  bargain  you've  got  in  exchange  ? 

Norton.  I  haven't  totted  it  up.  I  sha'n't  call  for 
the  bill  till  I've  finished  the  dinner.  Then  I  dare  say 
I  shall  find  I've  been  swindled. 

Cutler.  Not  a  very  recherche  meal  you're  sitting 
down  to,  eh  ? 

Norton.  One  gets  tired  of  the  best  cooking.  I  fed 
at  Garnier's  once  for  a  month  on  end.  It  drove  me 
to  a  little  rowdy  Palais  Royal  restaurant. 

Cutler.  With  rechauffe  dishes  and  a  dirty  table- 
cloth ?     You  liked  that  ? 

Norton.  It  was  a  change. 

Cutler.  Change  ?  The  food  was  exactly  the  same, 
only  coarser,  staler,  greasier,  dirtier.  Change  ?  Lust 
is  always  the  same.  Intrigue  is  always  the  same.  It's 
only  a  deep  enduring  love  that  is  always  fi"esh,  always 
varied,  always  new, 

Norton.  Don't  fancy  I'm  cut  out  for  it. 

Cutler.  What  are  you  cut  out  for?  This  new 
treasure  trove ? 

Norton.  What  about  her  ? 

Cutler.  Some  jewel  of  God's  fine  workmanship? 
Something  very  rare,  beautiful,  accomplished,  refined, 
sympathetic,  eh  ? 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  107 

Norton.  1  can't  say  she  is. 

OuTLER.  Take  care,  George.  A  man  stamps  his  own 
character  by  the  character  of  the  woman  he  constantly 
pairs  with. 

Norton.  Mine's  pi-etty  battered.  I  don't  think  it 
can  come  to  much  further  harm.  But  if  it  does, 
that's  my  look  out. 

Cutler.  What  is  your  look  out  ?  When  you  tire  of 
this  compagne  cle  voyage,  Avho's  to  be  the  next  ?  And 
the  next  ?  And  the  next  ?  What  are  your  plans  for 
middle  age  ? 

Norton.  I  haven't  got  any. 

Cutler.  What's  your  old  age  going  to  be  ? 

Norton.  Heaven  knows.  Rather  doddering,  I 
should  say.  You're  asking  me  a  lot  of  awkward 
questions. 

Cutler.  [Very  kindly.']  Won't  you  ask  them  your- 
self ?    Won't  you  look  ahead  ? 

Norton.  I'd  rather  not,  if  you  don't  mind.  I 
dare  say  things  will  straighten  out  all  right. 

Cutler.  Won't  you  straighten  them  out  yourself  ? 
First  of  all,  there's  your  wife 

Norton.  Oh,  that  has  straightened  out  of  itself. 
Of  all  my  comjjagnes  cle  voyage  my  wife  has  given  me 
the  least  trouble — since  we  separated.  You  know 
how  we  came  to  get  married.  I  never  took  that 
seriously. 

Cutler.  You  did  take  Lora  Delmar  seriously  ? 

Norton.  I  suppose  I  did.  That's  the  mistake  of 
taking  these  afiairs  seriously.  You  only  jib  the  more 
when  you  find  they  aren't. 


108  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Cutler.  Loi-a  took  it  very  seriously  ?  She's  taking 
it  very  seriously  still  ? 

Norton.  Yes,  poor  girl.  Women  do  take  these 
things  more  seriously  than  men.  It's  a  pity.  Makes 
one  feel  such  a  beast  when  one  has  got  to  break 
it  off. 

Cutler.  George,  think  again  !  She  has  stuck  to 
you  all  these  years.  You  know  what  it  means  to  her. 
But  do  you  know  what  it  means  to  yourself  ?  She's 
the  only  woman  who  can  bring  you  home  to  your 
best  self,  and  make  you  of  some  little  vise  in  the 
world.  You  won't  be  so  base,  so  foolish,  as  to  throw 
her  over  ? 

Norton.  Looks  very  much  like  it,  I'm  afraid. 

Cutler.  No !  No !  This  other  affair  is  only  a 
passing  fancy  ?    It  isn't  going  to  last  ? 

Norton.  I'm  leaving  for  Italy  and  Egypt  in 
the  morning,  so  I  suppose  it  will  last  through  the 
winter. 

Cutler.  Some  months,  then  ? 

Norton.  For  all  I  know  it  may  last  for  some  years. 
I'm  sure  I  hope  it  may.  It  will  save  me  a  lot  of 
trouble  if  it  does. 

Cutler.  And  when  it's  over  ?  Don't  you  think 
you'll  find  out  the  worth  of  Lora  Del  mar  and  come 
back  to  her  ? 

Norton.  I  might.  Really,  I  can't  say.  I  don't  feel 
like  it  at  present.  In  any  case,  I  leave  Charing  Cross 
at  nine  to-morrow  morning. 

Cutler.  Cancel  it.  George.  You  aren't  so  tied  up 
that  you  couldn't  get  out  of  it? 


ACT  II  THE   DIVINE  GIFT  109 

Norton.  The  tickets  are  taken.  I'm  booked  till 
March.  The  only  thing  is  to  wish  me  Bon  voyage — 
unless  you've  got  any  more  awkward  questions  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  just  one.  What  attraction  can  a  man 
with  your  bringing  up,  tastes,  education,  associations 
— the  best  that  England  could  give  a  man — 
what  attraction  can  you  find  in  daily  intimacy  with 
such  a  woman  ?  Don't  you  feel  degraded,  imbruted 
by  it? 

Norton.  I  say,  my  dear  old  friend,  with  all  your 
experience  of  men  and  women,  you  aren't  going  to 
take  off  your  coat,  and  try  to  mop  up  the  sexual  mess, 
are  you  ? 

Cutler.  No,  \_He  looks  at  Norton  for  a  long  time 
and  then  goes  up  to  him  and  speaks  very  kindly 
and  gravely.]  George,  you're  making  a  fearful  havoc 
of  your  life. 

Norton.  Ain't  I  ? 

Cutler.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ? 

Norton.  If  I'm  not,  I  ought  to  be. 

Cutler.  When  you  left  Oxford  and  went  into  Parlia- 
ment, we  all  had  the  highest  hopes  of  you.  You  dropped 
into  your  uncle's  seat ;  you  had  all  the  best  training 
and  traditions  ;  you  made  your  mark  at  once ;  if 
you'd  kept  at  it,  you'd  have  been  one  of  the  leaders 
of  the  party  to-day. 

Norton.  Getting  myself  horsewhipped  by  suffra- 
gettes ;  spouting  party  twaddle  all  over  the  country  ; 
and  marching  in  and  out  of  the  lobbies  half  the 
night. 


110  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Cutler.  But  you  were  born  into  the  governing 
classes.  That  was  your  heritage — to  govern.  That 
was  your  post.  You  ran  away  from  it.  You're  a 
deserter. 

Norton.  I  stuck  to  it  for  seven  years,  during 
which  my  enlightened  constituents  entirely  dis- 
franchised themselves  by  giving  me  Bill  Bowler,  the 
labour  king,  for  a  colleague.  Just  before  the 
nineteen-six  election,  as  I  was  leaving  the  House,  I 
came  across  Bill  in  the  middle  of  a  group  of  labour 
royalties.  He  casually  referred  to  me  as  a  blanky 
aristocratic  loafer. 

Cutler.  Wasn't  he  about  right  ? 
Norton.  Perfectly.  An  admirable  description  of 
me.  I  couldn't  have  bettered  it  myself.  Except  that 
I  was  not  blanky — not  in  any  literal  sense.  When 
the  election  came,  I  saw  the  country  was  in  for  a 
blanky  period  of  blanky  legislation  by  blanky  persons 
and  blanky  methods.  So  I  scuttled^  and  left  the 
science  of  government  to  Bill  Bowler. 
Cutler.  You  scuttled  ? 

Norton.  I  did.  And  seeing  the  blanky  muddle  the 
blanky  country  has  got  itself  into,  don't  you  think 
I  was  very  well  out  of  it  ? 

Cutler.  No.  It  isn't  the  time  for  scuttling.  The 
Goths  are  upon  us.  They're  going  to  sweep  away 
aristocratic  loafers.  Have  no  doubt  about  that. 
They'll  sweep  you  away.  And  they'll  be  right.  But 
the  mischief  is,  they  won't  care  what  else  they  sweep 
away.  In  the  scrimmage,  they  may  sweep  away 
what's  left  of  art   and   literature   and   architecture 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  111 

in  our  common  national  life  ;  everything  that  has  any 
enduring  value  or  beauty  ;  everything  that  we  mean 
when  we  say  *'  England  "  ;  everything  that  has  made 
our  country  something  different  from  a  shrieking 
railway  yard,  surrounded  by  factories,  and  miles  of 
squalid  brick  hutches  for  human  rabbits ;  everything 
that  made  this  land  a  soil  to  grow  great  men,  great 
poets,  great  warriors,  great  seamen,  great  statesmen  ; 
great  thinkers.  What  do  they  care  what  they  sweep 
away  ?  But  they're  going  to  sweep  you  away,  George 
— that's  certain.  The  danger  is  they  may  sweep  me 
away  too. 

Norton.  I  should  be  sorry  for  that.  But  with  all 
respect  for  you,  aren't  you  something  of  an  elegant 
superfluity  ? 

Cutler.  No.  I  am  the  most  necessary  member  of 
the  social  organism.     I  am  a  man  of  leisure. 

Norton.  Well,  that's  very  pleasant  for  you.  But  I 
don't  see  your  particular  use. 

Cutler.  I  have  tried  to  think  for  mankind.  To 
do  that,  I  must  have  ample  leisure,  freedom  from 
personal  cares,  and  easy  circumstances.  Then  I  can 
fulfil  my  function. 

Norton.  Well,  old  friend,  they  don't  seem  to  have 
very  much  need  of  you. 

Cutler.  You  think  not  ?  Look  at  the  mad  hungry 
mobs  of  the  earth,  clamouring  for  perpetual  beer  and 
skittles.  Look  at  the  noisy  gangs  of  politicians,  voting 
the  mobs  their  beer  and  skittles,  or  anything  else 
they  shout  loud  enough  for.  Darwin  has  lived  in 
vain  for  politicians.     They  have  never  even  heard  of 


112  THE  DIVINE   GIFT  act  ii 

him.  How  can  these  brass  heads  think  for  the 
people  ?  How  can  the  people  think  for  themselves, 
among  all  the  damnable  clatter  of  their  party 
machines?  Don't  they  need  somebody  to  think  for 
them  ?  Yes,  they  need  me.  But  they  don't  want 
me.  Very  well.  I'll  step  aside,  and  make  way  for 
my  colleague. 

Norton.  Who's  that? 

Cutler.  The  man  with  a  sword. 

J^ORTON.  Yes,  I  suppose  Kitchener  will  have  to 
look  in  before  it's  over. 

Cutler.  Meantime,  you're  going  to  loaf  in 
Egypt  ? 

Norton.  Oh,  I  shall  push  into  the  interior  and  get 
some  sport . 

Cutler.  Sport  ?  Won't  you  pull  yourself  together, 
George?  Isn't  it  worth  making  an  effort?  If  you 
must  have  a  woman's  companionship,  what  in  the 
wide  world  could  you  wish  for  more  than  you've 
already  got,  and  are  throwing  away?  Won't  you 
pick  up  your  career  with  her,  go  into  Parliament 
again ;  or,  if  the  time  for  talking  is  nearly  over,  get 
ready  for  action.  There  will  be  plenty  to  do  in 
England  before  long.  Your  grandfather  lies  at 
Lucknow — is  the  old  spirit  all  gone  ? 

Norton.  I  say,  you're  making  me  feel  plaguy 
uncomfortable.  I  know  I'm  in  a  bad  way,  and  I 
know  the  country  is  in  a  bad  way,  but — can't  you 
cut  the  preaching  ? 

Cutler.  I've  finished. 

Norton.  That's  right.    What  about  dinner?    ,You 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  113 

wired  me  to  get  here  at  seven,  and  so  I  did ;  but  it 
isn't  going  to  be  all  sermon  pie,  is  it  'i 

Cutler.  No.  I've  got  a  little  dinner  that  you'll 
like. 

Norton.  Good.     What  time  ? 

Cutler.  Eight  or  thereabouts.  I'm  expecting 
another  guest.     [Looking  at  watch.] 

Norton.  Who's  that  ? 

Outler.  She'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes. 

Norton.  She  ?  [Looks  at  him.]  Not  Lora  ?  [Cutler 
doesn't  reply.]  I  say,  this  is  too  bad  !  You  oughtn't 
to  have  cornered  me  like  this.  I'll  be  ofi"  before  she 
comes. 

Cutler.  No,  George.  She's  coming  on  purpose  to 
meet  you. 

Norton.  It's  too  bad.  And  it's  so  rough  on  her. 
No !  I'll  get  away.  Yovi'll  smooth  it  down  for  her, 
won't  you  ? 

Cutler.  [Sto2)pi7ig  him.]  No.  [Listens.]  There's  a 
motor  just  driven  up.  She's  here.  You  must  see 
her. 

[Norton  makes  a  gesture  ofiritense  annoyance. 

Norton.  But  what's  the  use  ?  I  shall  pretend  to 
make  it  up  with  her,  let  her  think  it's  all  right,  and 
then  write  her  to-moi-row. 

Cutler.  No.     You  mustn't  do  that. 

Norton.  We  shall  have  a  beastly  uncomfortable 
evening  if  I  don't.     Yes,  that's  what  I  shall  do. 

Cutler.  No,  George.    That  will  be  cruel,  cowardly. 

Norton.  Have  you  seen  her  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  this  moi'ning. 

H 


114  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Norton.  Is  she  very  much  cut  up  ? 

Cutler.  Her  heart's  breaking.  I  don't  envy  the 
feelings  of  the  man  who  will  have  to  remember  all  his 
life  that  he  has  broken  a  heart  like  hers. 

Norton.  Well,  then,  why  do  you  let  me  in  for  it 
to-night  ? 

Cutler.  Wliy  do  you  let  yourself  in  ?  You  needn't. 
Spare  yourself  ;  and  spare  her.     It  isn't  too  late. 

Norton.  Infernally  awkward  it's  going  to  be  for 
all  of  us. 

[JEnter  Sandford. 

Sandford.  [Annowices.]  Madame  Lora  Delmar. 

[Writer  Lora  in  a  soft,  beautiful,  quiet-toned 
evening  dress.  She  is  pale,  excited,  hopeful, 
ano:ious. 

Lora.  Good  evening,  dear  sage. 
Cutler.  Good  evening, 
Lora.  [I'd  Norton.]  And  you- 


Norton.  \Goes  to  her,  kisses  her  hand  gracefully.  His 
manner  toioards  her  is  very  charming  and  considerate 
throughout.]  Ah,  this  is  delightful. 

Lora.  [Looking  at  him  anxiously.]  You're  pleased 
to  see  me  ?     Of  course  you'll  say  you  are 

Norton.  And  mean  it,  most  devoutly.  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  for  a  dull  evening.  This  old  wisdom- 
box  has  been  grinding  out  good  advice  to  me  for  the 
last  half-houx',  haven't  you  ? 

Cutler,  I  do  preach,  terribly.  Coleridge  left  a 
few  shreds  of  his  mantle  hereabouts,  and  they've 
clung  to  my  shoulders.    [Taking  out  watch.]   I'll  go 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  115 

and  dress.  [To  Lora.]  Oh,  by  the  way,  a  young 
Cornish  composer,  by  the  name  of  Treganza,  has  been 
bothering  me  for  a  letter  of  introduction  to  you. 
He's  composing  an  opera  on  Fair  Rosamond. 

Lora.  Poor  creature.  Thei'e  are  so  many  of 
them. 

Cutler.  I  gave  him  the  letter.  But  you  needn't 
see  him.  You  can  manage  to  entertain  yourselves 
tni  I  come  down  ? 

Norton.  Pray  don't  hurry.  You  couldn't  leave  me 
in  pleasanter  company. 

Lora.  [To  Cutler.]  Now,  does  he  mean  that  ? 

Cutler.  [Looks  gravely  at  Norton.]  I  think  he 
does.  I  feel  sure  he  does.  [Goes  to  door,  turns,  looks 
at  them.]  I  was  going  to  preach  again,  I  won't.  But 
— [speaks  with  considerable  feeling] — if  this  short  life 
holds  anything  at  all  that  is  sacred,  surely  you  two 
are  bound  to  each  other.  Surely  the  ties  of  your 
attachment  should  bind  you  all  the  closer,  because 
they  are  silken  and  not  iron.  If  there  is  any  shadow 
of  an  excuse  for  a  love  such  as  yours,  it  is  because  it 
willingly  accepts  deeper  obligations,  more  lasting 
responsibilities  than  marriage  itself.  The  summer  is 
passing  for  both  of  you — the  heyday  is  cooling ;  won't 
you  provide  for  the  coming  autumn  ?  Won't  you 
treasure  up  what  little  happiness  is  left  for  you  ?  Get 
to  understand  each  other.  Find  out  that  you  are 
necessary  to  each  other — and  then  we'll  have  dinner. 

[Exit. 

Lora.  Tell  me  I've  done  right  in  coming. 

Norton,  To  give  me  three  hours  of  your  company 


116  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

and  spare  me  three  hours  of  dear  old  Cutler's  philo- 
sophy ? 

LoRA,  [Very  anxiously.]  You  are  really  pleased  to 
see  me  ? 

Norton.  Ah,  you  may  sometimes  doubt  me,  but 
you  should  never  doubt  yourself.  [Again  kisses  her 
hand.]  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

LoRA.  I've  been  in  such  a  flutter  all  the  afternoon. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would  be  annoyed — and  think 
1  was  forcing  myself  upon  you. 

Norton.  What  happier  destiny  could  any  man  have 
than  that  you  should  force  yourself  upon  him  ?  Especi- 
ally in  such  a  charming  dress. 

LoRA.  It's  not  a  new  one.  You've  seen  it  before. 
Don't  you  remember  ? 

Norton.  No,  I  can't  recall  it.  But  since  you  were 
doubtless  present,  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  was  so  much 
occupied  in  admiring  you,  that  I  had  no  attention  to 
give  to  your  dress. 

LoRA.  And  to-night  you  have  so  little  attention  to 
give  to  me  that  you  can  admire  my  dress. 

Norton.  Ah,  no.  To-night  I  have  so  much 
admiration  for  you,  that  it  flows  over  upon  every- 
thing that  is  lucky  enough  to  be  near  you,  or  upon 
you. 

LoRA.  Don't  you  think  you  are  vei-y  unkind  to 
make  me  pretty  speeches  just  now? 

Norton.  Aren't  you  a  little  unreasonable  to  present 
me  with  such  a  tempting  subject  for  pretty  speeches 
and  then  blame  me  for  making  them  ? 

LoRA.  Don't,  George;  please  don't.  You  must  know 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  117 

that  you  can't  deceive  me  by  all  this.  \Looks  at  Mm 
very  reproachfully.^  You're  very  cruel  to  me. 

Norton.  My  dear  Lora,  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that 
I  could  be  guilty  of  deceiving  you  ;  but  I  could  never 
be  guilty  of  being  cruel  to  you.  [Looking  at  the  dress.l 
Anyhow,  you  can't  deny  that  the  dress  is  exquisitely 
made,  and  even  more  exquisitely  worn. 

Lora,  I  put  it  on  because  I  thought  it  might  remind 
you  of  the  last  time  you  saw  it. 
Norton.  When  was  that  ? 
Lora.  Think. 

Norton.  Tenby?  [She  shakes  her  head.] 'Lyndhurst'i 
[Shakes  her  head.]  Cheltenham  ?  [She  shakes  her  head, 
and  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.] 

Lora.  How  can  you  bear  to  speak  of  them  so 
lightly  ? 

Norton.  Because  I  have  the  pleasantest  recollec- 
tions of  them  all.  To  look  back  on  them  makes 
England  seem  like  a  delightful  stretch  of  meadow  and 
woodland,  dotted  all  over  with  lovers'  trysting-places. 
Lora.  Some  day  I  shall  go  back  to  them  all,  and 
put  up  a  gravestone  to  the  happy  hours  that  have 
gone. 

Norton.  I  hope  not.  When  you  visit  any  of  them 
again,  I  hope  it  will  be  to  spend  still  happier  houi*s, 
with  a  more  deserving  companion. 

Lora.  [With  a  flash  of  indignation.]  You  can  say 
that  ?  You  can  think  it  ?  I'd  rather  you  had  struck 
me.     You  have  struck  me.     Please  take  it  back. 

Norton.  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  you  must  own 
I  haven't  always  been  a  very  desirable  companion. 


118  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

At  Cheltenham,  for  instance,  I  scarcely  spoke  to  you 
at  dinner. 

i'   LoRA.  It  was  my  fault.     I  lost  my  temper,     I'm  so 
sorry,  George.     Forgive  me. 

Norton.  No,  forgive  me.     I  was  a  brute. 

LoRA.  You  are  never  that. 

Norton.  I  was  that  evening. 

LoRA.  No,  you  were  hungry  and  tired,  and  I  had 
kept  you  waiting. 

Norton.  But  when  you  appeared,  you  were  certainly 
worth  waiting  for.  And  how  well  you  sang  that 
evening. 

LoRA.  That  was  because  we  had  made  it  up. 

Norton.  And  how  well  you  looked. 

LoRA.  Did  I  ?     What  was  I  wearing  ? 

Norton.  Not  that  charming — confection. 

[^Looking  at  her  dress. 

Lora.  No.     I  got  this  new  for — where  ? 

Norton.  Where  ? 

LoRA.  Guess. 

Norton.  Don't  tease  my  memory  any  more.  Tell  me. 

LoRA.  Weymouth. 

Norton.  Ah,  Weymouth. 

Lora.  Don't  you  remember  ?  We  went  out  on  the 
water  after  dinner,  and  I  wore  it  in  the  boat  with  my 
swansdown  over.  Don't  you  remember?  The  big 
moon  rising  over  the  bay — and  the  band  in  the 
distance  playing  *'  Tannhauser  "  so  abominably  and  so 
splendidly — and  the  surly  old  Dorsetshire  boatman — 
and  the  oai-s  in  the  rowlocks — and  the  dancing  lamps 
on  the  ripples  showing  us  our  way  home — and  how  I 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  119 

slipped  on  the  wet  steps — and  how  you  caught  me 
tight  in  your  arms,  and  I  lent  myself  to  you — I  feel 
the  thrill  of  it  now  [Leaning  towards  him.]  George, 
it  isn't  all  over  ? 

Norton.  [Gemcinely  touched  for  a  moment.l  I  have 
treated  you  badly,  Lora. 

LoKA.  That  doesn't  matter.  We  can  make  a 
fresh  start.  "We  have  all  the  future,  haven't 
we? 

Norton.  What  a  cur  I've  been  to  you ! 

Lora.  Forget  it,  as  I've  done.  {Clasping  him.'] 

Norton.  I  wish  I  could.  [Withdraiviiig  from  her 
embrace.]  But  the  fact  remains,  I've  been  a  selfish, 
careless  beast.  And  the  worse  fact  remains,  that  I'm 
afraid  I  sha'n't  be  any  better  in  the  future.  You'd 
far  better  see  that  at  once,  and  send  me  ofl"  as  I 
deserve. 

Lora.  But  I  can't !  I  can't !  How  can  you  ask  it, 
after  all  that  we  have  been  to  each  other  ?  Every  drop 
of  blood  in  me  is  married  to  a  drop  of  yours.  Think 
of  all  the  dear  moments,  all  the  dear  memories  1 
They're  part  of  me,  like  my  arms  and  my  feet.  Aren't 
they  part  of  you  ? 

Norton.  You  make  me  feel  like  a  dirty  scoundrel 
who  has  cheated  at  cards,  or  kicked  a  woman. 

Lora.  Well,  aren't  you  that,  if  you  throw  me 
over? 

Norton.  Yes,  I  am.  But  upon  my  word,  I'm  not 
worth  making  all  this  fuss  about.  Come,  Lora,  be 
sensible. 

Lora.  [Impatientli/.]  Oh,  be  sensible !  Be  sensible ! 


120  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

Norton.  I  wish  there  was  some  way  in  which  I 
could  make  the  amende.  If  you  were  in  need  of 
money,  and  I  could  help  you  ;  if  you  wanted  friends 
or  introductions.     Isn't  there  anything  I  can  do  ? 

LoRA.  Yes,  one  thing. 

Norton.  What's  that  ? 

LoRA.  Don't  kick  me  from  you. 

Norton.  Well,  I  won't.  But  tell  me,  can't  I  help 
in  your  profession  ? 

LoRA.  I've  given  it  up. 

Norton.  Surely  not !  Given  up  your  singing  ? 
What  will  you  do  when 

LoRA.  When  you've  kicked  me  away  from  you  ? 
Die  slowly,  from  my  heart  outwards. 

Norton.  But  I  can't  be  saddled  with  this  double 
crime.  You  mustn't  give  up  your  singing.  I've 
always  felt  so  proud  of  your  voice.  And  I  should 
like  to  feel  proud  of  it  still. 

LoRA.  Do  you  mean  that  ? 

Norton.  Indeed  I  do. 

LoRA.  [Becomes  7nore  animated.]  I'll  sing  to  you 
now.  [Going  to  door,  ojjening  it."]  What  will  you 
have  ?  Do  you  remember  the  little  song  I  sang  to 
the  urchins  that  day  at  the  foot  of  the  Saint 
Gothard  ? 

Norton.  Ah,  the  Saint  Gothard. 

LoEA.  We  got  very  near  heaven  that  day,  George  ? 

Norton.  Six  thousand  feet  towards  it. 

LoRA.  I'll  sing  you  that,  shall  I  ? 

[She  goes  off  quickly  at  the  open  door.     He 
moves  a  step  or  two  relicctantly  towards  the 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  121 

door,  stops,  shoivs  great  perplexiti/.  She 
strikes  a  few  chords  on  the  piano  in  the 
next  room.  He  looks  at  his  watch,  shov:s 
annoyance,  vexation,  impatience.  She  strikes 
a  feio  more  chords.  He  makes  a  step  to- 
wards door,  drops  into  a  chair  with  disgust ; 
knocks  his  fist  fiercely  on  to  his  knee.  She 
strikes  a  few  more  chords.  He  makes  a 
grimace  and  shrug  of  helplessness.  His 
face  shows  a  sudden  resolve.  He  smiles 
and  nods  to  himself. 

[LoRA  re-enters.] 

LoRA.  Aren't  you  coming  ?  [Norton  rises  quickly, 
and  goes  to  her  with  a  show  of  eager  affection.]  Don't 
you  want  to  hear  me  ? 

Norton.  [Taki7ig  her  in  his  arms.]  Always  I 
Always ! 

LoRA.  [Responding  to  his  embrace.]  Ah  !     Do  you 
mean  that  ?     Have  I  won  you  back  ? 
Norton.  You  have  never  lost  me. 

[Embracing  her.     She  draws  him  to  her,  kisses 
him  passionately,  again  and  again  ;  then 
bursts  into  tears,  falls  into  a  chair,  sobbing 
and  laughing  hysterically.     He  stands  be- 
hind her,  and  makes  a  shrtig  of  pity  and 
helplessness ;   then   shows  vexation  as  she 
continues  sobbing. 
LoRA,  [Getting  calmer^  Don't  take  any  notice  of 
me.     I  shall  be  better  in  a  moment.  [He  moves  a  step 
or  two  behind,  her,  looking  at  her,  showing  annoyance 


122  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

and  impatience^]  There!  [Wiping  her  eyes  and  smiling 
at  him  through  her  tears.]  It's  all  over  now.  [Still 
sobbing  and  crying  a  little!]  I  couldn't  help  it,  [Jumps 
up.]  Oh,  I'm  so  happy  ! 

Norton.  You  see  you  were  right.  You  know  me 
better  than  I  know  myself. 

LoRA.  Of  course  I  do.  I  knew  you'd  come  home 
to  me.  You  couldn't  do  without  me  for  long,  could 
you  ? 

Norton.  I  sha'n't  try,  after  this. 

LoRA.  Are  you  sure  ?  Promise  me.  No,  don't 
promise,  because  I  know  you  wouldn't  keep  it.  Would 
you  ?     Could  you  ? 

Norton.  I  won't  promise  this  time.  I'll  surprise 
you,  by  behaving  as  perfectly  as  the  man  who  has 
the  honour  of  being  loved  by  you  ought  to 
behave.  And  if  I  don't  quite  live  up  to  it,  it's 
only  becavise  no  man  could  hope  to  be  perfect 
enough  [putting  his  arm  fondly  round  her  waist,  and 
speaking  with  great  tenderness]  to  deserve  such  love  as 
yours. 

LoRA.  No ;  don't  make  me  pretty  speeches, 

Norton.  [Same  soft,  tender  tone.]  What,  not  when 
I  mean  them  ? 

LoRA.  Do  you  mean  them  ?  Then  why  are  you 
unkind  to  me  ? 

Norton.  Only  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  you  say  that  you  forgive  me. 

LoRA.  Forgive  you  ?  I'm  yours  to  do  as  you  please 
with.  Beat  me,  bruise  me,  stab  me — only  love  me, 
and  I'll  forgive  you.    That's  all  past.      Now  let's  talk 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  123 

of  the  future.  We're  going  to  be  happier  than  we  have 
ever  been.  Don't  you  feel  that  ?  I've  given  up  my 
tour,  so  I'm  quite  free.  Where  shall  we  spend  the 
winter  ?    You  said  you'd  like  Italy  and  Egypt. 

Norton.  Where  would  you  like  ? 

LoRA.  No,  you  shall  choose  everything  for  me,  except 
the  man  I  love ;  and  I'll  choose  nothing  for  you,  ex- 
cept the  woman  you  love. 

Norton.  [Very  tenderly. '\  I've  chosen  her  myself. 

LoRA.  And  you've  chosen  so  wisely !  Now  !  Where 
shall  we  go  ?    Shall  it  be  Italy  and  Egypt  ? 

Norton.  The  world's  end,  in  your  company. 

LoRA.  I'll  hunt  up  all  the  routes  and  trains  to- 
morrow. We'll  get  away  from  England  as  soon  as  we 
can,  shall  we  ?  And  when  we  come  back  in  the  spring 
we'll  take  the  dearest  little  place  in  the  country — 
somewhere  in  Kent,  or  the  Surrey  Hills,  where  we 
can  easily  get  to  town,  and  people  can  easily  get  down 
to  us.  And  you  shall  have  your  horses,  and  your  gun, 
and  your  dogs ;  especially  this  faithful  dog,  who'll 
follow  you  when  you  want  her  company  ;  and  fetch 
and  carry ;  and  lie  down  and  watch  you  when  she's 
told ;  and  sometimes  steal  up  to  you,  and  put  her 
paws  on  your  shoulder,  and  look  at  you  ovit  of  her 
swimming  eyes,  and  say,  "Haven't  you  got  a  little 
love  to  give  me,  Master  ?  I've  nothing  to  do  all  my 
life  long  but  wait  on  you.  Master." 

Norton.  But  you  mustn't  give  up  your  profession. 

LoRA.  Yes.  It  takes  up  so  much  of  my  time  and 
thought ;  reheai'sing  all  day  and  singing  till  midnight, 
and  having  to  meet  people,  and  listen  to  their  stupid 


124  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

flatteries,  and  go  to  their  silly  lunches  and  receptions, 
and  b'e  stared  and  smirked  at — it's  all  so  idiotic.  It 
bores  me  till  I  can't  bear  myself.  That's  why  I've 
often  been  so  fretful  and  tiresome  to  you.  I've  never 
been  able  to  give  you  my  best.  But  I  will.  You'll 
see.  It  shall  be  so  different  in  the  days  to  come, 
I've  never  really  had  a  home  ;  I'm  going  to  have  one 
at  last.  You  know  I'm  really  a  home  bird. 
Norton.  But  you  mustn't  stop  singing. 
LoRA.  Well,  I'll  sing  to  you  whenever  you  want  to 
hear  me.  And  I'll  sing  to  the  public — sometimes — 
perhaps.  But  not  this  next  season.  That  shall  be 
entirely  yours.  And  listen,  bad  boy,  you'll  never 
play  truant  from  me  again  ! 

Norton.  No.  I'll  never  play  truant  from  you 
again. 

LoRA.  That's  right.  Just  keep  on  loving  me  as 
much  as  you  can,  and  I'll  keep  on  loving  you — a  hun- 
dred times  more  than  I  can.  [Breaking  from  him.] 
Ohj  I've  never  been  so  happy  ? 

[Norton  looks  at  his  watch. 

LoRA.  You're  thinking  about  dinner.    It's  sure  to 

be  something  you'll  like.     And  after  dinner  I'll  sing 

to  you  a  little,  and  then — we  won't  stay  very  late. 

I've  ordered  my  motor  at  a  quarter  to  eleven. 

Norton.  Right.  I'll  get  you  to  put  me  down  at 
the  Club. 

LoRA.  At  the  Club? 

Norton.  I've  an  appointment  there  at  a  quarter 
past  eleven. 

LoRA.  It  won't  keep  you  very  long  ? 


ACT  11  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  125 

Norton.  I'm  afraid  it  will — an  hour  at  least,  per- 
haps two. 

LoEA.  Can't  you  put  it  oft"?  Think — to-night, 
George — you  might  put  it  ofi"  for  to-night. 

Norton.  I  can't  very  well  get  out  of  it. 

LoRA.  I'll  wait  for  you. 

Norton.  No.  I  mustn't  keep  you  out  there  in  the 
cold. 

LoRA.  You've  kept  me  out  in  the  cold  for  a  good 
many  weeks.  An  hour  or  two  longer  won't  much 
matter. 

Norton.  No.  You'd  better  drop  me  and  go 
on 

LoRA.  You'll  come? 

Norton.  [After  a  slight  hesitation.]  Yes  —  of 
course. 

LoRA.  You're  sure?  [Suddenly.]  You  don't  mean 
to  come ! 

Norton.    Yes,  if  I  get  through  in  anything  like 

decent  time.  If  I  don't,  I'll  run  round  in  the  morning. 

[There  is  an  awkivard  silence  for  some  moments, 

LoRA.  This  appointment  ?  It's  some  very  urgent 
business  1 

Norton.  Obviously.  Could  anything  but  ui^gent 
business  keep  me  from  you  ? 

LoRA.  Who  is  it  you  are  going  to  meet  ? 

Norton.  Oh,  my  dear  Lora,  you  mustn't  be  in- 
quisitive. 

LoRA.  I'm  not  inquisitive.  I've  never  been  mean, 
or  petty,  or  prying.     Have  I  ? 

Norton.  Your  behaviour  has  always  been  perfect 


126  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

and  charming.  [Gracefully/  kissing  her  ha7id.}  I'm 
sure  it  will  continue  to  be  so.  Now,  shall  we  have  a 
pleasant  little  dinner,  and  some  music,  and  then  you 
shall  drop  me  at  the  Club. 

LoRA.  No.  [She  walks  desperately  about  the  room 
for  a  few  seconds  ;  then  stops  in  front  of  him.^  You're 
going  to  meet  that  woman.  [Re  doesnH  reply.]  You're 
going  to  meet  that  woman.     Do  you  deny  it  ? 

Norton.  Impossible  for  me  to  deny  what  a  lady 
so  confidently  affirms. 

LoRA.  After  what  you  have  said  to  me  here  a  few 
moments  ago,  you  are  going  from  me  to  her  ?  You 
are  capable  of  that  ? 

Norton.  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  much  like  the 
prophet  Habakkuk.     I  am  capable  de  tout. 

LoRA.  This  appointment  is  with  her  ?  Have  you 
any  further  appointments  with  her?  I'm  not 
inquisitive.  But  six  months  ago  you  planned  to 
spend  the  winter  with  me.  You  have  made  other 
plans  ? 

Norton.  I'm  sure  it  couldn't  give  you  any 
pleasure  to  discuss  them. 

LoRA.  No.  But  I  want  to  know.  All  the  time  I 
have  lived  with  you,  I  have  never  known  when  to 
trust  you.  Now  we  are  parting,  for  once  be  honest 
with  me.     Tell  me  the  truth. 

Norton.  If  you  wish.     I'm  leaving  Charing  Cross 
at  nine  to-morrow  morning.     The  tickets  are  taken, 
and  the  servants  have  gone  on  with  the  luggage. 
LoRA.  Where  are  you  going  ? 
Norton.  Italy  and  Egypt. 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  127 

LoRA.  [Very  quietly,  very  hitterly?[  Italy  and  Egypt. 
Thank  you.     Now  I  know. 

Norton.  That  being  so,  what  do  you  wish  me  to 
do  ?  Shall  I  go  to  Cutler  and  make  my  excuses,  and 
give  him  an  unpleasant  evening  ?  Or  would  you 
rather  I  stayed  and  went  through  the  dinner  ?  I'm 
afraid  it  wouldn't  be  a  very  agreeable  time  for  any  of 
us.    But  I  am  at  your  service. 

LoRA.  You're  at  my  service  ? 

Norton.  Now,  and  always. 

LoRA.  You're  at  my  service  ?  No,  you're  at  the 
service  of  any  thing  in  skirts  that  catches  your 
fancy.  The  dustman  who  carts  the  street  rubbish 
from  house  to  house  is  better  employed  than  you, 
you  scavenger  1  You're  at  my  service  ?  No,  it's  I 
who  have  been  at  your  service.  It's  I  who  have 
crawled  up  to  you,  and  begged  for  leave  to  wait  on 
you  and  be  your  slave.  For  four  years  I  have  given 
you  all,  all — yes  more — that  the  purest  and  truest 
woman  could  give  to  the  best  and  truest  man.  Oh, 
my  God !  Has  ever  a  woman  loved  a  man  as  I  have 
loved  you  ?  Has  ever  a  woman  humbled  herself  as  I 
have  humbled  myself  to  you  ?  And  for  what  ?  How 
have  you  paid  me  ?  You  have  always  lied  to  me.  Even 
when  you  loved  me  most — and  you  have  loved  me, 
George  Norton — if  there  has  ever  been  any  love  in 
that  heart  of  youi's  that's  been  worth  having,  I've 
had  it — you'll  never  love  another  woman  as  you  have 
loved  me — but  what  has  your  best  love  been  worth  ? 
Even  in  our  happiest  moments,  you  have  always  been 
ready  to  trick  and  deceive  me.     Don't  you  think  I 


128  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  ii 

know  you  ?  "Well,  I  deserve  to  be  treated  as  you  have 
treated  me  !  How  else  could  you  treat  any  woman  ? 
You're  at  my  service  ?  No,  I've  been  at  your  service, 
and  in  your  service  for  four  years.  I've  served  you 
faithfully,  and  I've  got  my  wages.  Now  go  to  her  ! 
Say  the  same  things  to  her  that  you've  said  to  me. 
Whisper  you  old  lies  and  flatteries  to  her.  Play  the 
same  tricks  on  her  that  you've  played  on  me.  Go 
to  her  !  Let  her  serve  you  as  I  have  done,  let  her 
find  you  as  heartless  as  I  have  done,  and  then — 
kick  her  from  you  as  you  have  kicked  me.  Go  to 
her  ! 

[Norton  stands  very  quietly  for  some  little 
time. 

Norton.  Believe  me,  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the 
cruel  wrong  I  have  done  you.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
with  all  my  heart.  I  am  sorry  our  attachment — our 
love  for  each  other — should  end  like  this. 

LoRA.  It  has  ended.     Good-night. 

Norton.  Good-bye. 

[He   is  going   off   token    Cutler    enters   in 
evening  dress. 

Cutler.  [Cheerili/.]     Well,    you've    come    to    an 
understanding,  I  hope  ? 
Norton.  Yes.     Good-night. 
Cutler.  Good-night? 

Norton.  Good-night.  [Bows  to  Loea,  JSoait, 

Cutler.  One  moment,  George — you're  not  going  ? 

[Exit  after  him. 


ACT  II  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  129 

[LoRA  goes  very  quietly  to  chair,  sits,  stares 
hopelessly  out.  After  a  second  or  tioo 
Cutler  enters,  very  slowly  and  sadly — 
he  looks  at  Lora,  who  sits  motionless, 
tearless ;  comes  up  to  her,  loith  great 
sympathy,  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Cutler.  Poor  child  of  the  storm  ! 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  III 

Scene  :  The  same  on  an  evening  in  the  following  June. 
The  windows  on  the  balcony  are  thrown  wide  open. 
As  the  curtain  rises  a  faint  jlxish  of  pink  is  seen 
along  the  distant  horizon  over  the  intervening 
wooded  June  landscape.  The  sky  above  is  soft 
evening  blue  with  white  fleecy  clouds.  The  sunset 
advances  and  the  sky  darkens  through  the  act ; 
an  wange-pink  glow  touches  the  lower  clouds  andj 
gradually  mounts  till  it  comjmsses  the  higher  clouds; 
the  twilight  comes  on;  lights  dot  the  darkening 
plain  ;  the  clouds  glow  with  a  darker  orange  andj 
red  as  the  day  dies  doion  into  night. 

Discover  Cutler  standing  above  the  table  right  handling 
some  sheets  of  MS.  Lora  in  a  summer  dress  with 
a  book  in  her  hand,  enters  from  the  balcony.  Her 
face  is  a  little  paler  than  in  the  earlier  acts,  and 
has  a  more  settled  sadness  ;  her  manner  is  more 
subdued  and  restrained. 

Lora.  [Putting  down  the  book.]  Have  you  finished 
your  article  ? 

Cutler.  Not  quite.  It's  a  very  large  subject  : 
"  The  Future  of  the  Human  Kace." 

131 


132  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

LoRA.  That  is  a  large  subject. 

Cutler.  I've  nearly  disposed  of  them.  Seccoinbe 
is  coming  in  by  and  by  to  take  down  the  last  sheet 
and  get  it  off  to  the  printers.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I'm 
expecting  my  little  friend  Mrs.  Janway,  and  I've 
asked  her  husband  to  meet  her.  He  couldn't  get  up 
from  Oakminster  in  time  for  dinner ;  so  I've  put 
it  off  and  ordered  supper  instead,  if  you  don't 
mind  ? 

LoRA.  [Has  taken  off  her  hat.]  Not  at  all.  I'm  not 
hungry,  and  it  seems  a  sin  to  eat  in  this  heavenly 
weather. 

Cutler.  I  hope  I  shall  persuade  Will  and  Evie  to 
stay,  but  I  expect  I  shall  have  a  pretty  stiff  job 
with  him. 

LoRA.  I'm  sorry  she  had  got  herself  into  such 
trouble 

Cutler.  Foolish  people  must  needs  work  out  a 
foolish  destiny. 

LoRA.  And  wise  people  too.     We're  all  alike. 

Cutler.  No,  wise  people  control  their  destiny,  as 
you  are  going  to  control  yours.  Come  now,  what  are 
going  to  do  ? 

LoRA.  I  shall  go  down  to  North  Devon  for  a  few 
weeks — perhaps  stay  there  all  the  summer. 

Cutler.  You'd  much  better  stay  on  here. 

LoRA.  No,  dear  sage.  You've  been  very  kind  to 
lend  me  your  house,  and  I've  enjoyed  being  here  all 
this  wonderful  spring.  But  now  you  are  home  again 
I  feel  I  must  be  moving  on. 

Cutler.  Nonsense !  Stay  on  with  me.  It's  bringing 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  133 

you  round.  Last  night,  when  you  were  singing,  you 
were  quite  your  old  self 

LoRA.  I  don't  want  to  be  my  old  self. 

Cutler.  Well,  a  new  self. 

LoRA.  No,  she  might  turn  out  to  be  a  more  foolish 
and  more  unhappy  creature  than  the  old  Lora.  No, 
I  don't  want  to  be  anything  or  anybody,  but  just  to 
float  on,  and  let  life  do  what  it  likes  with  me,  and 
carry  me  whei'e  it  pleases. 

Cutler.  But  I  can't  let  you  drift.  This  new 
opera  of  Treganza's  seems  to  have  the  right  stuff  in 
it,  eh  ? 

Lora.  Yes — that's    another    reason   Avhy    I   must 

go. 

Cutler.  What? 

Lora.  The  poor  boy  has  fallen  in  love  with  me. 

Cutler.  Confound  this  universal  amorosity  that's 
always  confounding  everything  else  in  the  universe. 
I  guessed  he  had.  Well,  you  can  keep  him  at  a  safe 
distance 

Lora.  Yes.  But  I  like  him,  and  I  don't  want  to 
be  cruel  to  him.  If  I  go  away  from  him  now,  he'll 
have  a  bad  month  or  so  and  forget  me.  But  if  wo 
work  together  on  his  new  opera,  and  make  it  a  success, 
he'll  only  go  on  falling  more  deeply  in  love  with  me, 
and  then — with  his  temperament — I  might  ruin  his 
future  and  break  his  heart.  And  there  are  too  many 
broken  hearts  already  in  the  world. 

Cutler.  Oh,  one  more  won't  matter  very  much. 
He'll  get  over  it.  Yovi  mustn't  think  of  him.  You 
must  give  all  }  our  thoughts  to  your  work  for  a  year 


134  THE  DIVLNE  GIFT  act  hi 

or  two,  and  then,  if  some  decent,  kind,  sensible  fellow 
comes  your  way — why  not  marry  him  ?  i-    ^ 

LoRA.  [Shakes  her  head  sadly. ^  Marriage  is  not  for 
me — now.  If  I'd  not  had  a  voice,  I  might  have  had 
a  home  and  children  and  friends,  and  a  quiet  heart. 
But  now  ?  I'm  not  fitted  for  marriage.  Oh,  pity  my 
husband,  if  I  did  marry  ! 

Cutler.  Why  ? 

LoRA.  I  can't  live  a  home  life  now.  George  Norton 
spoiled  me  for  that.  Or  perhaps  I  spoiled  myself 
before  I  met  him.  I  don't  think  I  have  any  real  life 
left  to  live.  But  if  I  do  grow  out  of  this,  and  live 
again,  I  think  it  will  be  in  some  wild,  selfish,  reckless 
way. 

Cutler.  No  !  No !  Disordered  genius  ?  Unkempt 
genius  ?  Spendthrift  genius  ?  Depraved  genius  ? 
Crazy  genius  ?  No  !  No  !  No  !  "Well-ordered  genius ! 
Persistent  genius  !  Wise  genius  !  Sane  genius  ! 

LoRA.  Dear  sage,  do  let  me  know  myself.  You 
can't  guess  what  depths  there  are  here.  I  daren't 
look  at  them. 

Cutler.  Well,  don't.  Stay  on  hei^e.  Gi'ow  calmer 
and  stronger  every  day.  Steady  youi'self,  and  set  to 
woi-k  on  "  Fair  Rosamond  " 

LoRA.  That  might  be  the  worst  thing  of  all  for 
me. 

Cutler.  How? 

LoRA.  This  poor  boy — he  loves  me,  and  I'm  fond 
of  him.  His  bright  eyes,  his  enthusiasm,  and  his  love 
for  music — he  is  so  young — it  all  means  so  much  to 
him 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  135 

Cutler.  But  you  surely  aren't  going  to  fall  in  love 
with  him  ? 

LoRA.  No,  I  don't  suppose  so. 

Cutler.  For  heaven's  sake,  no.  Not  a  musician,  or 
an  artist,  or  an  actor.     Let  it  be  a  human  being. 

LoRA.  I  hope  it  won't  be  anybody  for  his  sake, 
whoever  he  may  be. 

Cutler.  Why  is  he  so  much  to  be  pitied  ? 

LoRA.  I  can't  give  him  anything  worth  having.  I 
had  the  power  of  constancy.  I've  lost  it.  I've  lost  my 
moorings.  Anything  may  happen  to  me.  I  can't  trust 
myself.  If  I  do  love  again,  I  shall  be  jealous,  capri- 
cious, ungovernable,  unfaithful 

Cutler.  "Well,  then  don't  love  again.  But  I  suppose 
you  will  ? 

LoRA.  Yes,  I  daresay — after  a  fashion.  But  not  as 
I  loved  George.    Have  you  heard  from  him  ? 

Cutler.  [After  a  slight  hesitation.^  Yes.  There  was 
a  letter  waiting  for  me  when  I  got  home  yesterday. 

LoRA.  [I ndifferently .'\  Where  is  he  ? 

Cutler.  First  of  all,  tell  me  quite  truly  how  you 
feel  towards  him. 

LoRA.  Not  bitterly.    A  little  tenderly  and  pityingly. 

Cutler.  You  have  no  love  left  for  him? 

LoRA.  Not  a  spark. 

Cutler.  You're  sure  of  that  ?  Your  love  for  him 
is  quite  dead  ? 

LoRA.  Quite.  I  could  meet  him  almost  like  a 
stranger.  What  a  curious  mocking  thing  a  dead  love 
is.  Like  what  you  showed  me  in  that  old  urn  this 
morning.   All  the  burning  kisses  and  vows  and  tears — 


136  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

nothing  but  ashes ;  a  little  heap  of  gray  ashes  that 
were  once  a  man.    Where  is  George  ? 

Cutler.  In  London. 

LoRA.  You've  seen  him  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  I  left  him  an  hour  ago. 

LoRA.  I  hope  he's  well  and  happy. 

Cutler.  No.  He  has  had  a  very  bad  time.  He 
was  taken  with  typhoid  in  Italy,  and  nearly  died  of  it. 

LoRA.  You  never  told  me. 

Cutler.  What  would  have  been  the  use?  You 
were  ill  yourself.  That  laid  him  up  until  March.  He 
has  had  one  or  two  relapses,  and  is  still  very  weak 
and  shaky. 

LoRA.  And  his  paroquet  ? 

Cutler,  She  got  frightened  of  infection,  r-obbed 
him  of  everything  she  could  lay  her  hands  on,  and 
packed  off  to  Egypt,  leaving  him  to  die. 

LoRA.  He  needed  me  then. 

Cutler.  Well,  he  just  pulled  through,  dr-agged 
himself  to  Sicily,  and  has  stayed  there  ever  since. 
He  only  got  to  England  on  Monday. 

LoRA.  Is  he  very  much  broken  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  and  terribly  depressed.  Not  at  all 
like  himself.  George  has  lost  all  his  old  pride  in 
evil-doing.  It's  only  healthy  people  who  can  be 
joyous  sinners. 

LoRA.  What's  he  going  to  do  ? 

Cutler.  I'm  afraid  he's  going  to  try  to  see  you, 
[Watching  her  closely.]  I  told  him  it  could  be  only 
useless  and  painful  to  you  both, 

LoRA,  Yes. 


ACT  III  THE   DIVINE  GIFT  VM 

Cutler.  He's  writing  to  you.  Perhaps  he'll  call. 
You  won't  see  him  ? 

LoRA.  Yes,  I  think 

Cutler.  No,  better  not 

LoRA.  You  needn't  feai',  dear  sage.  George  has 
gone  out  of  my  life. 

Cutler.  Well,  who  and  what  is  coining  into  it  to 
take  his  place  ? 

LoRA.  Nothing  at  present. 

Cutler.  IsTreganza  coming  round  this  evening? 

LoRA.  Oh  yes.  He's  sure  to.  You  think  George 
will  get  over  this  ? 

Cutler.  Yes,  but  it  will  take  some  time.  It  has 
knocked  him  all  to  pieces. 

LoRA.  I'm  so  sorry  for  him. 

Cutler.  [Has  gone  up  to  balcony  and  is  looking  ont.] 
Isn't  that,Treganza  hanging  round  outside  the  palings  ? 

LoRA.  He  does  that  every  evening.  He  never 
comes  in,  unless  I  go  down  to  the  garden  gate  and 
invite  him,  dear  foolish  chivalrous  boy.  I  dare  say 
he'll  be  there  soon. 

Cutler.  Ask  him  in,  and  we'll  have  a  little  more 
"  Fair  Rosamond." 

LoRA.  [Looking  off".]  I  never  grow  tired  of  this  land- 
scape ;  and  to-night  it  seems  more  beautiful  than  ever. 

Cutler.  Ah,  the  iron  old  Mother  grows  tender  to 
us  sometimes.  That  flush  of  Northern  sunset  in  the 
long  June  evenings  ! 

LoRA.  What  a  pity  the  longest  day  will  soon  be 
hert — and  pass. 

[Sandford  enters. 


138  THE  DIVINE  GIFr  act  iii 

Saxdford.  [A7i7iounces.]  Mrs.  Janway. 

[Enter  Evie.     Exit  Sandford. 

[EviE  is  dressed  in  a  very  smart  summer 
toilette.  She  looks  distressed  and  downcast, 
and  has  the  air  of  a  martyr. 

Evie.  How  d'ye  do,  dear  Guardj  ?  [Kissing  Cutler.] 

OuTLER,  How  are  you,  my  dear  ? 

Evie.   Madame    Delmar !     [Shaking    hands     loith 

LORA.] 

LoRA.  How  d'ye  do  ?     Mr.  Cutler  tells  me  you're 

going  to  stay  and  have  supper  with  us 

Evie.  Yes — I  don't  know — yes,  I  suppose. 
LoRA.  Then  we  shall  meet  again,  sha'n't  we  ? 

[Goes  off  at  balcony. 

[Evie  has  thrown  herself  into  a  chair,  cmd  has 
begun  to  a^y  a  little. 

Cutler.  Well,  Evie,  this  is  rather  a  sad  bit  of 
business. 

Evie.  Isn't  it  ?  Did  you  ever  know  a  woman  so 
pursued  by  misfortune  as  I  am  ? 

Cutler.  Never. 

Evie.  Every  high  and  noble  thing  I  do  only  brings 
me  greater  misery. 

Cutler.  Our  virtues  betray  us  as  often  as  our  faults. 

Evie.  Have  your  arranged  for  Will  to  meet  me  ? 

Cutler.  Yes.  He's  coming  up  from  Oakminster. 
[Taking  out  watch.^  He'll  be  here  soon. 

Evie.  You  got  my  letter  from  Lucerne? 

Cutler.  Yes,  but  it  was  a  little  disjointed 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  139 

EviE.  Can  you  wonder,  considering  the  awful  state 
I  was  in  ? 

Cutler.  Tell  me  exactly  how  it  happened.  Your 
first  letters  from  Tarasp  were  so  cheerful.  You 
seemed  to  have  settled  down  so  comfortably  with  Miss 
Lambert  and  Karlinski. 

EviE.  Yes,  so  we  did.  Of  course  I  had  no  idea  of 
the  dreadful  reputation  Karlinski  had. 

Cutler.  As  a  violinist  ? 

EviE.  No,  as  a He  has  had  love  affairs  with 

everybody. 

Cutler.  Busy  creature !  But  you  and  Miss 
Lambert  were  staying  at  the  other  hotel  ? 

EviE.  Yes,  but  I've  since  found  out  that  he  had  an 
affair  with  her. 

Cutler.  Quite  an  aflairist,  it  seems. 

Evie.  Yes,  and  at  his  own  hotel  there  was  a 
Mrs.  Berriman — I'm  almost  sure — and  a  tall,  light- 
haired  woman 

Cutler.  Are  these  things  possible  in  the  High 
Alps  ?  And  do  the  Eternal  Heavens  look  down  un- 
moved ? 

Evie.  Guardy,  you  might  be  serious  for  once,  when 
you  see  the  terrible  position  I  am  in.  [Crying. 

Cutler.  I'm  sorry,  my  dear.    Tell  me  the  rest  of  it. 

Evie.  Well,  it  was  all  a  carefully  planned  scheme 
between  Mary  Lambert  and  Karlinski  to  get  hold  of 
my  money. 

Cutler.  Sort  of  three  card  trick,  eh  ? 

Evie.  Yes.  It  was  Karlinski  who  advised  me  to 
take  Mary  Lambert  out  to  Switzerland  with  me  to 


140  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

train  my  voice.  They  knew  I  was  divorcing  Will, 
and  that  Will  was  making  me  a  handsome  settlement. 
So  they  planned  that  Karlinski  should  marry  me  for 
the  sake  of  my  fortune. 

Cutler.  Les  affaires  sont  les  affaires. 

EviE.  They  thought,  of  course,  when  they  got  me 
out  there,  that  I  should  be  persuaded  to  accept 
Karlinski.  But  when  they  found  I  was  determined 
to  live  for  art  alone,  they  had  to  try  another  plan. 

Cutler.  What  was  that  ? 

EviE.  We  stayed  on  at  Tarasp  till  the  end  of  March. 

Cutler.  They  attending  to  their  own  "affairs," and 
you  training  your  voice 

EviE.  Yes.  And  I  wrote  a  small  volume  of  poems. 
I'll  show  them  to  you  some  day. 

Cutler.  Thank  you.  Poems  ?  You  were  well  on 
your  way  to  your  great  future. 

EviE.  Yes,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  generous 
confiding  nature  I  should  have  realized  it.  For  I 
have  got  it  in  me,  haven't  I  ?  [ffe  doesn't  re2)ly.]  I'm 
sure  I  have.     I'm  sure  I  have. 

Cutler.  Well,  you  trained  your  voice  ? 

EviE.  Yes,  and  it  developed  splendidly.  You've  no 
idea  what  my  voice  has  become — quite  a  rich  powerful 
organ.  So  I  decided  to  give  a  concert.  That  gave 
Mary  Lambert  and  Karlinski  their  chance. 

Cutler.  Chance  of  what  ? 

EviE.  Of  getting  me  into  their  power.  They  had  a 
lot  of  musical  friends  at  Davos ;  so  they  persuaded 
me  to  give  the  concert  there.  They  went  on  to 
arrange  it,  leaving  me  to  follow  in  a  lew  days.    Mary 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  141 

Lambert  had  begged  me  to  lend  her  my  maid,  as 
there  was  so  much  to  do  for  the  concert.  So  I  had  to 
go  on  to  Davos  alone.  When  I  got  just  beyond  Sus, 
there  was  a  heavy  snowstorm,  and  I  was  forced  to 
take  shelter  in  a  wretched  dirty  little  inn  at  the 
top  of  the  pass.  The  next  day  Karlinski  came  on 
to  fetch  me  to  Davos,  But  it  snowed  worse  than 
ever,  and  his  horses  broke  down,  at  least  he  said  so. 
So  he  pretended  he  must  stay  on  at  the  inn.  Of 
course  he  had  planned  it  all. 

Cutler.  He  could  scarcely  have  planned  the  snow- 
storm. 

EviE.  No,  but  he  ought  to  have  fought  his  way 
out  of  it,  to  save  my  reputation.  Instead  of  that  he 
stayed ;  and  there  I  was,  shut  up  in  that  dreadful 
hole  with  Karlinski  for  over  a  fortnight,  and  nobody 
within  miles,  except  the  dirty  innkeeper  and  his  dirty 
fat  wife,  and  the  chickens. 

Cutler,  Art  demands  heavy  sacrifices  from  her 
victims, 

EviE.  Oh,  please  don't.  Can't  you  see  what  a 
terrible  situation  I  was  in  ?  Karlinski  would  keep 
on  making  love  to  me.  I  put  myself  under  the 
protection  of  the  dirty  landlady,  but  she  only  laughed 
at  me,  and  pretended  to  think  I  was  married  to 
Karlinski.     Of  course  Karlinski  had  bribed  them. 

Cutler.  Couldn't  you  possibly  get  thi'ough  ? 

EviE.  No,  the  roads  were  quite  blocked.  And 
Mary  Lambert  kept  on  advertising  the  concert,  with 
Karlinski  for  my  accompanist.  When  we  did  get 
down  to  Davos,  I  didn't  want  to  give  the  concert,  but 


U2  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

they  said  all  the  tickets  were  taken,  and  I  must  keep 
faith  with  the  public.  Well,  the  night  came  and  the 
room  was  crammed.  I  had  caught  a  dreadful  cold 
on  the  pass,  but  still  I  sang  splendidly — considering 
I  had  lost  my  high  notes.  But  there  wasn't  any 
applause,  scarcely  a  hand. 

Cutler.  Ungrateful  brutes,  the  public. 

EviE,  No.  They  appreciated  me,  but  they  didn't 
applaud. 

Cutler.  Held  themselves  in,  eh  ?  Why  did  they 
do  that  ? 

EviE.  Because  Mary  Lambert  put  it  about  the 
hotel  that  Karlinski  and  I  were  engaged,  and  that 
I  was  going  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  I  got  my  divorce. 
I  found  that  everybody  had  been  talking  about  me ; 
and  the  next  day  the  best  people  in  the  hotel 
wouldn't  speak  to  me.  Can  you  imagine  anything 
more  dreadful  ? 

Cutler.  What  did  you  do  ? 

EviE.  I  explained  to  them  that  there  was  nothing 
between  Karlinski  and  me, — absolutely  nothing ;  but 
I  could  see  they  didn't  believe  me.  Karlinski  and 
Mary  Lambert  tried  to  persuade  me  that  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  let  Will  make  Karlinski  co-respondent 
in  the  divorce  case,  and  then  he  would  marry  me.  Of 
course  I  refused,  and  got  away  to  Lucerne.  There 
I  happened  to  meet  the  Pumphreys.  I  told  them 
what  had  happened,  and  they  took  me  in.  Then  I 
wrote  a  full  account  of  it  to  Will,  but  he  only  wrote 
a  cold,  heartless  letter.  And  now  he  won't  have 
anything  to  do  with  me.  [Whimpering. 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  143 

Cutler.  How  did  it  get  into  the  papers  ? 

EviB.  Karlinski  must  have  sent  paragraphs  all 
round,  thinking  it  would  force  me  to  marry  him. 
Will  must  contradict  the  papers  at  once. 

Cutler.  It's  a  dangerous  thing  to  contradict  news- 
papers.    They  always  have  the  last  word. 

EviE.  But  who  is  to  defend  my  reputation  ?  I 
can't  defend  it  myself.  Somebody  must  defend  it. 
Surely  it's  my  husband's  duty  to  defend  my  repu- 
tation. 

Cutler.  But,  my  dear  Evie,  you  are  getting  a 
divorce. 

EviE.  No,  I'm  not. 

Cutler.  You're  not  ? 

EviE.  I  can't  have  a  divorce  now.  Naturally,  I 
don't  want  one.  I've  instructed  my  lawyers  to  with- 
draw my  petition. 

Cutler.  But  Will  seems  anxious  to  go  on. 

Evie.  He  can't.  I've  taken  it  off  the  list.  Guardy, 
you  must  see  that  I  can't  go  about  the  world  alone, 
with  this  disgrace  hanging  over  me.  The  only  pos- 
sible thing  for  me  to  do  now  is  to  go  back  to  Oak- 
minster  as  Will's  wife.  That  will  convince  everybody 
I  am  quite  innocent. 

Cutler.  But  Will  doesn't  seem  very  much  inclined 
to  take  you  back. 

Evie.  Oh,  but  he  must.  He  knows  that  I  have 
behaved  quite  properly  throughout.  You  know  it, 
Guardy,  don't  you  ?     You're  sure  of  it  ? 

Cutler.  Quite  sure,  my  dear. 

Evie.  Then  why  shouldn't  he  take  me  back  ?  Surely 


144  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

it's  his  duty  as  my  husband  to  stand  by  me.  Especially 
as  I've  been  trapped  into  this  awful  position  through 
no  fault  of  my  own.  I  couldn't  have  avoided  it, 
could  I ? 

Cutler.  Only  by  remaining  at  Oakminster  as  his 
wife,  instead  of  flying  ofi'  to  the  High  Alps. 

EviE.  But  then  I  should  have  had  to  sacrifice  my 
whole  artistic  career.  And  because  I  dared  to  follow 
the  highest  that  was  in  me,  I  find  all  the  hotel  visitors 
cutting  me,  and  everybody  believing  that  I'm  not  a 
good  woman.  Guardy,  why  are  things  like  that 
allowed  to  happen  ? 

Cutler.  The  monstrously  unfair  treatment  that 
Providence  deals  out  to  deserving  people  is  fully  dis- 
cussed in  the  Book  of  Job.  The  only  conclusion 
reached  there,  is  the  violently  improbable  one  of 
a  happy  ending. 

EviE.  [Sobbing.]  If  it  had  been  my  own  fault  I 
could  have  borne  it 

[Enter  Sandford. 

Sandford.  Mr.  Janway  is  in  the  next  room,  sir. 

Cutler.  Show  him  in. 

Sandford.  I  mentioned  that  Mrs.  Janway  was  with 
you,  and  he  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  he  wishes  to  see 
you  alone. 

Cutler.  Very  well,  Sandford.  I'll  be  there  in  a 
minute.  [Exit  Sandford. 

Evie.  You  see !  He  won't  even  do  me  the  bare 
justice  to  see  me,  and  hear  my  story. 

Cutler.  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  not  to 
have  a  divorce  ? 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  145 

EviE.  Quite.  So  he  must  take  me  home  with  him. 
He  can't  divorce  me  now  that  he  has  taken  some 
person  to  Brighton,  and  given  my  lawyers  the  evidence. 
You  might  point  that  out  to  him. 

Cutler.  I  suppose  I  may  tell  him  that  if  he  does 
take  you  back,  you'll  do  everything  you  can  to  make 
him  comfortable,  and  the  home  happy  ? 

EviE.  Of  course  I  shall.  I  always  have  sacrificed 
myself  to  his  wishes,  when  they  haven't  interfered 
with  my  sense  of  what  is  clearly  due  to  myself. 

Cutler.  [Going  off.]  We'll  hear  what  Will  has  got 
to  say. 

EviE.  [Bursts  into  fresh  tears.]  Guardy,  why  is  it 
that  I  am  always  singled  out  for  unhappiness  and 
misfortune  ? 

[Cutler  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  goes  off, 
[EviE  continues  crying.  Lora  enters  at  windoio 
and  comes  doton  towards  EviE. 

Lora.  [Seeing  that  Evie  is  crying.]   I  beg  pardon. 

[Is  going  off. 

Evie.  No,  please  don't  go. 

Lora.  [Coming  hack  to  her.]  Can  I  help  you  at  all  ? 

Evie.  No,  thank  you?  At  least — I  suppose  you 
have  heard  of  my  undeserved  trouble  ? 

Lora.  Mr.  Cutler  has  given  me  a  few  particulars. 
I'm  very  sorry.    I  hope  it  will  all  come  right. 

Evie.  Yes,  but  even  if  it  does,  my  artistic  career  is 
utterly  ruined  for  the  time.  Who  knows?  1  may 
never  be  able  to  show  the  world  what  I  have  in  me. 
[Loolcing  enmoiisly  at  Lora.]  Oh,  what  triumphs  you've 
bad  !    You  have  been  lucky. 


146  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  m 

LoRA.  Have  I  ? 

EviE.  Well,  haven't  you  ?  Your  pictures  are  in  all 
the  shop  windows;  and  they  write  to  you  for  your 
autograph  ;  and  you  get  columns  of  praise  in  all 
the  papers  whenever  you  appear.  You've  had  nothing 
but  one  long  round  of  success  and  happiness. 

LoRA.  You  think  I've  been  happy  ? 

EviE.  Well,  if  you  haven't  you  ought  to  have  been. 
Really  it  seems  to  me  that  some  women  are  never 
satisfied.  Look  how  different  my  life  has  been  from 
yours. 

LoRA.  I  hope  so. 

EviE.  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  must  be  very 
hard  to  please. 

LoRA.  I  don't  think  you'd  say  that,  if  you  knew 
what  my  life  has  been, 

EviE.  Tell  me.  I've  often  wished  to  question  you. 
Do  tell  me 

LoRA.  No,  it's  not  worth  telling. 

EviE.  Yes,  do  please.  It  may  be  a  guide  to  me  in 
my  own  career  when  I  take  it  up  again. 

LoRA.  You're  going  on  with  your  music  ? 

EviE.  Yes,  I'm  fondest  of  that.  But  just  now  I 
can't  decide.  I  may  devote  myself  to  poetry,  or 
painting.  There  are  so  many  objectionable  things 
and  people  connected  with  music — especially  for  a 
Avoman,  aren't  there  ? 

LoRA.  Yes.  I  wouldn't  risk  it,  if  I  were 
you.  You  wouldn't,  if  you  knew  what  I've  gone 
through. 

EviE.  What  have  you  gone  through  ?     Tell  me.     I 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  147 

should  be  so  grateful.  Of  course  I  don't  want  to 
know  your  private  life 

LoRA.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  your  knowing.  There  is 
nothing  in  my  private  life  that  isn't  known  to  some- 
body who  is  no  more  to  me  than  you  are. 

EviE.  Then  do  tell  me. 

LoRA.  [Looks  at  her  very  pityingly  for  a  ivhile.] 
Yes,  it  might  be  a  guide  to  you, 

EviE.  Where  were  you  brought  up  ? 

LoRA.  [Speaking  all  through  in  a  quiet,  passionless, 
matter-of-fact  tone,  without  any  trace  of  self-pity.]  In 
Halligan's  menagerie.  I  never  saw  my  father.  My 
mother  was  called  Signora  Gianelli,  the  renowned 
lion-tamer.  One  of  the  first  things  I  remember  was 
her  coaxing  me  to  stroke  a  lion's  neck. 

EviE.  And  did  you  ? 

LoRA.  Yes.  They  were  well  fed  and  harmless. 
She  was  plucky  and  healthy  and  handsome,  with 
Italian  blood  in  her.  She  gave  me  her  pluck.  I've 
scarcely  ever  known  fear. 

EviE.  How  delightful  that  must  be ! 

LoRA.  She  didn't  earn  very  much,  so  when  I  was 
six,  she  took  me  into  the  cage  with  her.  They  brought 
out  a  large  yellow  and  red  poster  of  my  mother  with 
her  foot  on  a  lion's  neck,  and  me  in  her  arms.  That 
was  on  all  the  walls  of  the  towns  we  visited.  So  you 
see  I've  always  been  used  to  that  kind  of  fame.  That's 
the  reason  I  don't  think  much  of  it  now. 

EviE.  But  it  must  have  been  very  exciting. 

LoRA.  No;  it  was  everyday  work.  I  suppose  I 
was  an  attractive  child,  for  when  I  was  ten  they  put 


148  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  m 

me  outside  at  every  performance  to  dance,  and  make 
a  speech  inviting  the  crowd  to  come  in.  I  liked  that, 
because  I  had  a  red  velvet  spangled  dress,  and  every- 
body noticed  me.  I  had  to  speak  up.  That  gave  my 
voice  its  power.  There  was  always  the  crowd,  and 
the  music,  and  the  flaring  lamps.  I  did  that  for 
three  years.  If  ever  I've  been  happy  in  my  life,  it 
was  then. 

EviE.  You  had  to  mix  with  a  lot  of  common  people  ? 

LoRA.  I  had  to  mix  with  human  nature.  I  had  to 
put  up  with  a  good  deal  at  times,  and  listen  to  bad 
language  and  coarse  jests.  But  I  took  no  notice  of  it, 
and  the  menagerie  people  were  kind  and  hardworking, 
and  quite  respectable. 

EviE.  How  very  interesting ! 

LoRA.  One  night  at  Gloucester  a  dear  old  lady 
stopped  and  talked  to  me.  She  asked  my  mother  and 
me  to  her  house.  In  the  end  she  took  me  away  from 
the  menagerie,  and  sent  me  to  a  fashionable  boarding 
school  at  Eastbourne. 

EviE.  1  wondered  how  it  was  that  you  are  so — so 
refined. 

LoRA.  Am  I  refined  ?  The  girls  at  the  school  made 
my  life  a  hell  to  me.  I  wasn't  of  their  class ;  they 
scarcely  spoke  to  me,  except  to  taunt  me,  and  mimic 
my  bad  manners.  But  I  Avas  quick,  and  I  soon  learned 
to  talk  and  behave  like  them.  And  I  had  music  and 
singing  lessons.  But,  oh,  the  misery  of  that  time! 
After  two  years  I  ran  away,  back  to  my  mother  and 
the  menagerie.  I  tried  to  take  up  that  life  again,  but 
I  couldn't.    I  hated  it.    Then,  one  night,  Stanley,  the 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  1 49 

tame  old  lion,  got  angxy,  and  nearly  tore  my  mother 
to  pieces.  She  just  escaped  with  her  life,  but  she  was 
a  wreck,  and  fit  for  nothing. 

EviE.  What  did  you  do  then  ? 

LoRA.  [Venj  quiet  all  through.]  Starved.  Starved. 
Starved.  For  four  years  my  mother  and  I  starved 
together.  I've  sung  and  danced  in  the  streets.  I've 
sung  and  danced  at  race- meetings.  I've  sung  and 
danced  in  public-houses.  Then  my  mother  died,  and 
I  got  an  engagement  in  the  chorus  of  a  provincial 
opera  company.  The  next  two  or  three  years  I  only 
half-starved.  I  married  a  careless  good-for-nothing,  a 
weak  brute,  who  took  my  salary,  and  got  drunk  and 
tortured  me.  I  left  him,  and  took  up  with  other  men 
— I  don't  know  who,  I  don't  remember — what  does  it 
matter  ?  They  were  nothing  to  me,  though  I  lived  with 
them.  Some  of  them  were  kind,  and  good  comrades. 
But  they  were  no  more  than  chance  acquaintances.  I 
took  up  with  them,  because  I  was  quite  hopeless  of 
ever  getting  out  of  it — they  were  part  of  it  all — dirty 
lodging-houses,  dirty  meals,  dirty  theatres,  dirty 
dresses  ;  nights  in  trains  ;  salaries  not  paid  ;  no  future, 
nothing  to  live  for — just  hurried,  helpless  getting 
through  from  day  to  day. 

EviE.  I  had  no  idea  what  that  kind  of  life  was  like. 
It  must  have  been  very  disagreeable. 

LoRA.  But  I  worked  hard  all  the  while,  though 
I  hadn't  the  least  hope.  I  knew  I  had  a  voice.  So 
have  many  singers  in  the  street.  I  never  expected 
to  get  a  hearing.  You  think  I've  been  successful  ? 
For  years  I  had  nothing  but  failure,  failure,  failure, 


1 50  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

disappointment,  disappointment,  disappointment.  But 
I  worked  on.  Then  Lewis  Gordon  sent  out  a  new 
opera  company  to  tour  the  provinces.  I  got  an 
engagement  for  small  parts.  He  took  a  gx-eat  deal  of 
notice  of  me.  I  saw  that  I  had  attracted  him.  In 
the  vacation  he  sent  me  to  Berlin  and  Dresden,  to 
study  under  good  masters.  How  I  worked  then  ! 
When  I  came  back  in  the  autumn,  there  was  another 
woman  in  the  company — Ella  Raymond.  She  could 
sing  too ;  and  she  did  all  she  could  to  get  hold  of 
Lewis  Gordon,  It  was  a  neck-and-neck  race  between 
her  and  me,  for  Gordon  and  the  public.  How  that 
woman  and  I  hated  each  other !  We  quarrelled  and 
almost  fought  on  the  stage.  We  did  every  mean 
thing  we  could  think  of  to  get  the  better  of  each 
other,  and  put  each  other  wrong  with  the  audience. 
I  saw  it  was  to  be  her  or  me.  I  determined  it  should 
be  me.  It  was  my  only  chance.  I  got  hold  of  Lewis 
Goi-don,  and  I  downed  her.  Yes,  I  crushed  her. 
She  had  to  leave  the  company,  and  she  never  got 
another  good  engagement.  Then  I  was  sorry  for  her. 
She  fell  ill,  poor  creature.  I  can't  tell  you  what  I 
suffered  for  what  I  had  done  to  her.  I  made  her  a 
good  allowance  that  kept  her  comfortably.  When 
I  could,  I  nursed  her ;  and  she  died  kissing  me  and 
calling  me  her  only  friend.  You're  shocked  and  sur- 
prised at  all  this  ? 

EviE.  Do,  please,  go  on. 

LoRA.  I  kept  on  working.  I  got  on  very  well 
with  Lewis  Gordon.  He  was  an  educated  man,  and 
a  gentleman.     But  he  hadn't  any  character,  and  I 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  151 

couldn't  love  him.  Just  then,  if  I  had  met  a  man 
whom  I  could  love,  I'd  have  easily  died  for  him.  We 
drifted  away  from  each  other ;  and  he  found  another 
attachment.  He  got  tired  of  losing  money,  and  gave 
up  the  company.  Then  I  got  an  engagement  at 
Covent  Garden,  I  made  a  great  success  in  a  small 
part,  and  the  next  day  I  met  a  man  whom  I  could 
love.  That  was  the  first  time  I  had  really  loved.  I 
didn't  know  I  had  it  in  me,  to  love  a  man  as  I  loved 
him.  And  now  I  don't  know  why  it  was.  It  isn't 
good  women  who  can  give  a  man  the  most  unselfish 
devoted  love.  They  are  faithful,  without  knowing 
what  faithfulness  means.  It's  such  as  I  who  can  be 
faithful  to  a  man.  And  I  was  faithful.  I  did  love 
him.  That  made  me  sing.  Then  they  found  out 
I  had  a  voice.  I  made  success  after  success.  I 
couldn't  help  it.     It  was  all  so  easy. 

EviB.  Surely  you  were  happy  then  ? 

LoRA.  No.  I  was  never  sure  of  him  for  a  moment. 
It  was  I  who  loved  him.  He  loved  me  too  in  a  way, 
but  I  kept  the  bank  of  our  love.  I  stood  to  lose.  I 
had  rages  and  torments  of  jealousy,  I  was  never  free 
from  it.  Very  often  my  happiness  with  him  was 
misery,  worse  than  misery  itself.  I  never  knew  how 
I  could  suffer  till  then.  No,  it  wasn't  happiness.  It 
was  fever.  Happy  ?  I've  been  happy,  as  a  drunkard 
is  happy.  But  real  sure  happiness  ?  I've  never  had 
a  day  of  it  in  my  life.  I  don't  know  what  it  means. 
Now  you  know  all  about  me. 

[She  has  spoken  very  quietly  throughout.,  as  if 
telling  the  history  of  another  iJerson. 


152  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

EviE.  Thank  you  for  telling  me  all  this.  It  must 
have  been  very  painful  to  speak  of. 

LoRA.  [Indiferent.]  No,  it's  past.  It  doesn't  mean 
much  to  me  now.  But  you  know  what  I  have  had 
to  go  through  to  be  what  I  am.  Do  you  think  it's 
worth  while  to  risk  it  ? 

EviE.  No,  you've  quite  decided  me  against  music, 
I  shall  give  myself  entirely  to  poetry.    I  have  written 

enough  poems  to  make  a  small  volume 

LoRA.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  give  yourself  entirely 
to  your  home  and  husband  ?  You  have  a  chance, 
such  as  I  have  never  had.  [Very  enviously.^  You  may 

have  a  child 

EviE.  I'm  not  fond  of  children.     And  they  would 

interfere [Cutler  looks  in  at  the  door. 

Cutler.  Evie,  will  you  come  this  way  a  moment  ? 

[Exit^  leaving  the  door  ox>en. 
Evie.  Thank  you  so  much.     "What  you  have  told 
me  will  be  such  a  guide  to  me.    I'm  so  much  obliged 
to  you.  [Exit. 

[LoRA  loohs  after  her  very  pityingly  ;  then  dis- 
misses her  with  a  little  heljdess  movement, 
and  goes  out  on  to  the  balcony ;  stands 
there  watching  the  setting  sun  ;  loaves  her 
hand  and  beckons  to  some  one  in  the 
garden. 
LoRA.  [Calling  off.]  Good  evening.  Yes,  come  up ! 
[John  Treganza  Joms  her  on  the  balcony.  He 
is  a  bright-eyed,  swarthy,  handsome  young 
CoRNiSHMAN  of  tioentyfive  ;  with  a  con- 
tagious earnestness  and  excitement ;  a  deep 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  153 

voice,  loith  a  slight    West  Country  accent ; 
joyous,  animated,  hopeful,  alert.     He  has 
some  sheets  of  music  in  his  hand.     They 
come  into  the  room. 
John.  You  don't  mind  my  coming  round  ? 
LoRA.  No,    I'm   pleased.      How   have    you   been 
getting  on  ? 

John.  Splendidly.  I've  been  out  in  the  woods  all 
the  afternoon,  working  like  a  steam  engine.  I  can't 
stop  myself.  I've  got  Rosamond's  song  at  last.  It 
has  been  buzzing  in  my  head  all  day.  And  I  know 
if  you'll  let  me  be  with  you  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
I  can  go  out  and  score  it  down  right  ofl'.  Give  me  a 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

[Looking  at  her  with  the  most  ardent  love  and 
longing. 
LoRA.  An  hour,  if  you  like.     We're  having  a  late 
supper  to-night ;  and  Mr.  Cutler  wants  you  to  come 
in  and  try  some  of  the  numbers. 

John.  Yes,  but  I  must  get  down  Rosamond's  song 
first.     Let  me  be  with  you  and  talk  to  you. 

\H.is  eyes  are  fixed  greedily  upon  her. 
LoRA.  Very  well.     Tell  me  some  more  about  your 
boy  days, 

John.  No,  let  me  talk  about  you  ;  because  I  don't 
seem  to  have  had  any  life  before  I  met  you.  Ah,  you 
don't  know !  The  first  time  I  heard  you  sing  at 
Covent  Garden  !  I  went  home  just  like  a  madman. 
I  walked  all  the  way  to  Norwood.  It  was  moonlight, 
and  London  was  like  a  fairy  city.  I  came  up 
the  next  night  you  sang.     I  never  missed  a  single 


154  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

performance  all  the  season.  I  used  to  wait  outside  the 
gallery  door  from  three  o'clock,  and  I  always  got  the 
middle  front  seat.  I  clapped  and  shouted  all  through, 
and  at  the  end  I  stayed  and  brought  you  on  time 
after  time.  Then  I  used  to  go  round  to  the  stage 
door,  and  wait  till  you  came  out,  and  run  after  your 
motor  till  I  couldn't  breathe 

LoRA,  Poor  boy  ! 

John.  No,  no.  There  never  was  anybody  so  happy 
as  I  was — as  I  am.  [Looking  at  her, 

LoRA.  Now  we've  had  enough  about  me.  Let's 
talk  about  yourself. 

John.  No,  there's  only  you  in  all  the  woi-ld. 

[Apjjroaching  as  if  to  embrace  her. 

LoRA.  You  won't  make  love  to  me,  will  you  ? 

John.  Yes.  Don't  turn  away  from  me.  Let  me 
love  you !  I  don't  want  you  to  love  me,  if  you  can't. 
But  let  me  love  you.    That  will  be  enough, 

LoRA.  [Gently  2^'^shing  him  from  her,  going  away 
from  him.]  Tell  me  about  the  old  church  and  the 
organ — and  your  mother. 

John.  She  used  to  say,  "  Now  Jan,  my  sonny  boy, 
daun't  'ee  be  vulish  weth  thase  heere  music.  Tez  oal 
very  well,  Jan,  but  thee've  got  thy  living  to  make, 
Jan."  And  then  I  used  to  go  to  the  old  church,  up 
to  the  organ  loft,  and  play  till  it  was  dark,  and  when 
I  got  back  to  supper  she'd  say,  "Thee'm  maazed 
weth  thase  heere  music,  Jan.  'Twill  send  thee  into 
the  county  'sylum  up  to  Bodmin,  Jan."  And  I  used 
to  say,  "  I  caent  help  ut.  Mother."  And  then  one 
night  she  gave  in  and  said :  "  Tez  no  gude  arguing 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  155 

weth  'ee,  Jan.  If  tez  to  be,  tez  to  be,  and  so  God 
bless  'ee,  Jan."  [^Apjyroaching  Aer.]  I  wish  you'd 
call  me  "  Jan."    Won't  you  ?    Do  !     Only  once  ! 

LoBA.  [Very  tenderly.]^    Jan! 

John.  Ah  ! 

[He  tries  to  clasp  her,  hut  she  gently  rejmlses  him. 

LoRA.  No.  I've  told  you  that  you  mustn't  make 
love  to  me.  Listen,  Jan.  Your  mother's  dead.  I'd 
like  to  be  your  mother,  just  for  ten  minutes.  Will 
you  let  me  ?  And  will  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say, 
quite  patiently  and  quietly  ? 

John.  Yes. 

LoRA.  [Putting  her  hand  very  affectionately  on  his 
arm.^  If  I  were  your  mother,  I'd  say  to  you,  "  You're 
going  to  be  very  successful,  Jan.  Perhaps  you'll  make 
a  great  name  in  music.  And  you're  going  to  be  praised, 
and  flattered,  and  made  much  of.  You  mustn't  think 
too  much  of  that.  It  means  so  little.  But  you  know 
that ;  because,  you  know,  the  only  praise  that's  worth 
having  is  the  praise  that  our  own  heart  whispers  to 
our  own  ear,  when  we  are  sure  we  have  struck  the 
right  note." 

John.  Yes,  I  know  that. 

LoRA.  So  you'll  keep  your  head  when  popular 
success  comes,  won't  you,  my  sonny  boy  ?  And  you'll 
have  your  failures  and  disappointments — bitter  ones, 
perhaps.  They're  good,  too.  They  teach  us.  You'll 
make  your  failures  help  you,  won't  you,  Jan  ? 

John.  Yes,  but  I  couldn't  fail  if  only  you'd  care 
for  me  a  little. 

[Looking  at  her  with  very  great  longing. 


156  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

LoRA.  You  promised  you'd  hear  me.  Yes  [looking 
at  him  very  tenderly  and  wistfully],  you'll  be  successful 
and  famous,  perhaps,  and  the  world  will  pet  you  and 
take  you  up.  And  you'll  be  loved,  Jan,  by  many 
women. 

John.  I  only  want  to  be  loved  by  you. 

LoRA.  You'll  be  loved  by  many  women 

John.  But  I  can  never  love  any  woman  but  you. 

LoRA.  [Shakes  her  head.]  You'll  love  many  women. 
Your  own  mother  wouldn't  have  spoken  to  you  like 
this.  She  didn't  know  the  world  that  you're  going  to 
live  in.  I  do  know  it.  Don't  let  it  spoil  you,  Jan. 
Don't  let  women  spoil  you.  You'll  have  to  love 
them ;  and  [looking  at  him  very  sadly]  perhaps  they'll 
master  you,  and  eat  away  all  the  freshness  from  your 
work,  and  break  your  heart. 

John.  There's  only  one  woman  who  can  break  my 
heart. 

LoRA.  There  are  many.  [Looking  at  him  very  ten- 
derly.] Oh,  it  will  be  a  pity  ! 

John.  What? 

LoRA.  If  you  don't  reach  the  best  of  all.  But 
you  will,  won't  you,  Jan  ?  You'll  be  loved  many  times, 
and  have  much  trouble  with  it  all ;  but  perhaps,  some 
day,  you'll  find  the  one  woman  who  can  give  you  all 
her  heart,  all  herself. 

John.  [Passionately.]  Can't  you  ? 

LoRA.  I  can't.  But  some  woman  will.  You'll  know 
her  when  you  meet  her.  Treat  her  very  tenderly ;  be 
faithful  to  her ;  guard  her  love — it's  a  great  possession. 
If  there  is  anything  worth  guarding  and  cherishing  on 


ACTiii  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  157 

earth,  that's  it.  Remember  what  I've  said,  Jan.  And 
God  bless  'ee,  my  sonny  boy  ! 

John.  [ImploringlT/.]  Can't  you  love  me  ? 

LoRA.  [Shakes  her  head  sadly.]  I'm  not  fitted  for 
such  a  love  as  you  have  to  give.  I'm  not  worthy  of 
it.  I  might  not  be  faithful  to  you — even  if  I  could 
grow  to  love  you. 

John.  But  you  could  grow  to  love  me — you 
shall ! 

LoBA.  Not  now,  Jan.     Don't  press  me. 

John.  You  don't  love  any  one  else  ? 

LoEA.  No. 

John.  Your  heart  is  free  ? 

LoRA.  My  heart  is  dead,  I  think. 

John.  I'll  bring  it  back  to  life.  I'll  make  you  love 
me. 

LoRA.  Ah,  no,  Jan.  For  your  own  sake,  don't  try. 
Suppose  I  could  love  you,  what  could  it  mean  for 
both  of  us  ?     I'm  much  older  than  you. 

John.  You've  many  years  of  love  to  give  to  some 
one.     Give  it  to  me. 

LoRA.  I  wouldn't  be  so  cruel  to  you. 

John.  It  would  be  the  best  thing  Heaven  could 
give  me.  What  is  your  future  going  to  be  without 
love? 

LoRA.  My  future  ?  Don't  speak  of  it.  I  haven't 
any. 

John.  Yes,  with  me.  You're  going  to  sing  my 
Rosamond  ? 

Lor  A.  Yes,  I  suppose, 

John.  Won't  you  promise  ? 


158  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

LoRA.  Yes,  if  you'll  px'omise  not  to  make  love 
to  me. 

John.  I  won't  make  a  promise,  because  I  know  I 
couldn't  keep  it.  But  if  you  don't  sing  it,  you  will 
break  my  heart. 

Lor  A.  I  won't  do  that. 

John.  [After  a  patcse.]  Give  me  one  kiss ! 

LoRA.  Ah,  no,  don't  ask  me. 

John.  Yes,  one.  I  can  do  Rosamond's  song  then. 
Only  one,  I'll  not  ask  for  another  till  you  give  it 
me  of  your  own  free  will — after  our  great  success. 

LoRA.  You'll  swear  that  ? 

John.  I  swear  it.     Give  me  one  kiss. 

LoRA.  You  are  not  to  kiss  me.  [She  kisses  him  very 
quietly  mid  tenderly  on  his  cheek.] 

John.  Now  I  can  do  it!  I'll  run  round  to  the 
little  inn  parlour,  and  score  it  down  right  away. 
[Snatching  up  his  music]  I'll  be  back  with  it,  done. 
[On  balcony.]  Come  down  to  the  gate  with  me,  won't 
you  ? 

[She  joins  him  on  balcony  and  they  go  oj^ 
together.  Will  Janway  and  Cutler  enter, 
^ihi,  flings  himself  into  an  arm-chair, 
evidently  disgusted  and  annoyed.  Cutler 
titrns  up  the  electric  lights. 

Will.  Well,  this  is  a  confounded  pretty  state  of 
affairs,  isn't  it?  And  after  I  had  faked  up  that 
beastly  three  days  at  Brighton. 

Cutler.  Your  Brighton  excursion,  like  misconduct 
generally,  seems  to  have-  been  largely  super- 
fluous. 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  159 

Will.  And  the  only  time  the  lady  and  I  showed 
up  together  on  the  front,  we  ran  straight  into  the 
Oakminster  curate,  and  he  would  stop  and  talk.  Of 
course  I  had  to  introduce  the  lady  as  my  cousin. 
Well,  the  curate  is  a  champion  idiot,  but  he  wasn't 
idiot  enough  to  believe  that ;  especially  as  the  lady 
didn't  look  like  a  genuine  cousin,  or  a  genuine  any- 
thing, except  a  genuine  what-she-was.  So  the  curate 
fished  out  my  hotel,  and  made  inquiries ;  and  when 
he  got  back  to  Oakminster,  he  began  talking  about  it. 
It  got  all  over  the  town,  and  the  vicar  called  to  lecture 
me.  "Well,  I  couldn't  stand  his  rowing,  so  he  has 
made  it  pretty  hot  for  me  all  round.  Pumphrey  is 
his  churchwarden,  and  the  Pumphi-eys  have  cut  me. 
And  I  tell  you,  just  at  present  Oakminster  doesn't 
regard  me  as  a  highly  moral  chai'acter. 

Cutler.  Never  mind  that,  while  you  can  so  regard 
yourself.     As  doubtless  you  can,  and  do. 

Will.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  being  very  moral ; 
but  I  have  been  jolly  badly  used. 

Cutler.  Don't  think  me  curious ;  but  the  last  six 
months — how  have  your  feminine  relationships  been 
— shall  I  say  "  functioning  "  ? 

Will.  Ghastly. 

Cutler.  You  left  here  last  November,  intending  to 
makeadamned  fool  of  yourself  with  some  unknown  fair. 

Will.  I  didn't  intend — in  fact,  I  intended  to  avoid 
it — as  far  as  possible. 

Cutler.  It  was  not  possible.  What  happened? 
Don't  give  me  any  particulars,  but  just  a  general 
impression. 


160  THE    DIVINE  GIFT  act  m 

Will.  Well — oh,  well — I'm  hanged  if  I  know 
exactly  what  has  happened.  Heaps  of  things  I  don't 
want  to  remember.  It  has  been  another  silly  mess 
up.  I  don't  know — I  want  to  go  straight — I'm 
pretty  sick  of  it. 

Cutler.  Then  you  don't  contemplate  your  be- 
haviour the  last  six  months  with  unmingled  pride 
and  satisfaction  ? 

Will,  No,  I'm  hanged  if  I  do.  Anything  but. 
I'm  hanged  well  ashamed  of  myself.  Though,  under 
the  circumstances,  I  don't  see  that  I  could  have  acted 
any  difierently. 

Cutler.  Suppose  you  separate  from  Evie,  will  you 
be  able  to — pardon  me  using  your  own  words — will 
you  be  able  to  shun  the  destiny  of  again  making  a 
damned  fool  of  yourself  ?  What  do  you  propose  to 
do  now  ? 

Will.  I  don't  jn'opose  to  do  anything.  But  I 
know  jolly  well  what  I  shall  do,  if  I'm  left  to 
myself. 

Cutler.  With  that  modest  estimate  of  your  moral 
stability,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  make  it  up  with 
Evie? 

Will.  I  don't  see  what  else  I  can  do.  Because  you 
see  the  Pumphreys  and  most  of  my  old  friends  at 
Oakminster  are  cutting  me,  by  the  vicar's  orders. 
And  Evie  met  the  Pumphreys  in  Switzerland  and  got 
round  them,  and  persuaded  them  I've  treated  her 
very  badly.  And  if  I  don't  take  her  back,  the 
Pumphreys  are  going  to  invite  her  down  to  Oak- 
minster to  stay  with  them.     And  she'll  make  every- 


ACT  in  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  161 

body  believe   that  I'm   a   brute  and  that's  she's  a 
martyr.    Pleasant  outlook,  eh  ? 

Cutler.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  take  her 
back. 

Will.  I  suppose  I  shall.  [Breaks  out  ivrathftilly.] 
How  the  deuce  do  women  expect  to  be  treated  ?  How 
is  a  man  to  ti^eat  them  ? 

Cutler.  After  thirty,  the  philosopher  treats  them 
as  a  side  issue  in  life. 

Will.  A  side  issue  ? 

Cutler.  God  took  Eve  from  under  Adam's  i-ibs  as 
a  profound  symbol  that  man  should  always  regard 
woman  as  a  side  issue. 

Will.  But  they  won't  let  you  regard  them  as  side 
issues.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing — what  with  Evie  and 
the  vicar,  and  the  Oakminster  people  generally,  I'm 
not  going  to  enjoy  myself. 

Cutler.  Endui'ance,  not  enjoyment,  is  man's  pass- 
key through  this  world.  Throw  youi'self  heart  and 
soul  into  your  business  ;  stick  to  your  work ;  be  kind 
and  forbearing  with  Evie ;  humour  her  as  much  as 
you  can  ;  consult  her  wishes,  and  receive  her  friends  ; 
put  her  in  her  right  position,  and  keep  her  there. 

Will.  What  on  earth  is  a  woman's  right  position  ? 
Will  you  please  tell  me  that  ? 

Cutler.  When  the  buoyant  Panurge  went  to 
Dodona  to  seek  counsel  in  matrimony — Rabelais 
doesn't  mention  this,  but  it's  authentic — Panurge 
asked  the  oracle,  "  What  is  woman's  rightful  posi- 
tion ?  "  The  oracle  replied,  "  Put  her  above  you,  she 
is  still  beneath  you.    Put  her  beneath  you,  she  is  still 

l 


162  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

above  you.    Put  her  on  a  level  with  you,  and  together 
you  sink  into  sub-bottomless  chaos." 

Will.  I  wish  some  oracle  would  tell  me  what  to 
do  with  Evie,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  take  her 
back. 

Cutler.  If  you  do,  you'll  have  tlie  satisfaction, 
denied  to  most  husbands  who  take  their  wives  back, 
of  knowing  that  she  has  behaved  herself  with  perfect 
propriety  dui-ing  her  absence  from  you. 

Will.  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  about  that  ? 

CuTLEE.  Not  the  least. 

Will.  Well,  that's  something 

[Saxdford  enters  loith  a  little  note 

Saxdford.  [Giviiuj  it  to  Will.]  Mrs.  Janway  asked 
me  to  give  you  this,  sir. 

[Will  takes  the  note  and  reads  it'.    Exit  Sandford. 

Will.  [^Having  readj  note,  shows  great  disgitst.^ 
What  do  you  think  I  She  has  gone  to  get  her 
luggage,  says  she'll  bring  it  to  my  rooms  at  the 
Lancaster.     I  shall  find  her  there  waiting  for  me. 

[TFi^A  great  disgust. 

Cutler.  There,  you  see,  matrimonial  problems  solve 
themselves,  if  we  only  allow  them. 

Will.  They  know  me  so  well  at  the  Lancaster.  I 
can't  turn  her  out  and  have  a  row 

Cutler.  Is  it  ever  Avorth  while  to  have  a  row  with, 
or  about,  a  woman  ? 

Will.  J  suppose  she'll  hang  on  to  her  artistic  tom- 
foolery. 

Cutler  1  should  let  her.  It  will  leave  you  free  to 
make  carpets. 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  163 

Will.  Then  there's  her  confounded  lawyer's  bill 
for  the  divorce.    I  shall  have  to  pay  up. 

Cutler.  To  pay  up  is  a  token  of  masculinity,  like  a 
stag's  antlers.     They  can't  deprive  us  of  that. 

Will.  [Desperately.]  I've  a  jolly  good  mind  to 

Cutlee.  To  do  what  ? 

Will.  [  With  a  gestiire  of  desjxiir.]  I  dunnow 

[Enter  Sandford. 
[Sandford  announces  Mr.  Norton. 
[Enter  George  Norton.    Exit  Sandford. 
[Norton  is  much  changed  in  manner — he  is  pale 
and  languid,  as  if  recovering  from  a  long 
weakening  illness.  His  pallor  and  the  sharp- 
ness of  his  features  make  him  even  more 
handsome  and  distinguished. 
Cutler.  Oh,  George,  I  scarcely  expected  you. 
Norton.  I  hope  you  don't  mind.     How  d'ye  do, 
Jan  way  ? 

Will.  How  are  you  ? 

[Shaking  hands. 
Norton.  Just  turning  the  corner,  after  a  bad  bout 
of  typhoid.    You'i-e  looking  well. 
Will.  I'm  splendid. 
Norton.  How's  Mrs.  Janway  ? 
Will.  Oh,  she's  capital,  thanks. 
Norton.  Give  her  my  kind  regards. 
Will.  I  will.    [To  Cutler.]    I'll  ring  you  up  in 
the  morning. 

Cutler.  Do.  Bring  Evie  here  to  dinner  to-morrow 
night.    [Shaking  hands.]     My  young  friend  Treganza 


164  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

shall  give  you  some  bits  out  of  his  new  opera,  "  Fair 
Rosamond." 

Will.  Thanks.  Evie's  fond  of  music.  Well,  I'll 
be  getting  back  to  her. 

[Cutler  sees  him  off  and  closes  door  after  him. 

Cutler.  This  is  too  bad  of  you,  George. 

Norton.  I  couldn't  stick  it  in  those  rooms  all  the 
evening.    So  I  thought  I'd  come  up  and  see  her. 

Cutler,  No,  George.  She  has  only  just  pulled 
round,  after  months  of  terrible  weakness  and  depres- 
sion. I  can't  let  you  upset  her,  and  throw  her  back 
again. 

Norton.  I  won't  upset  her.  I'll  only  just  see  her 
and  get  her  answer. 

Cutler.  No 

[Lora  appears  on  balcony  and  comes  in.  She 
has  a  little  shock  of  surprise,  and  then 
comes  down  to  him  very  simply  and  kindly  ; 
holds  out  her  hand. 

Lora.  George 

[ZTe  takes  her  hand,  lends  over  it,  kisses  it 
tenderly. 
Norton.  Cutler   isn't    giving    me    a    very   warm 
welcome,  and  I  was  rather  afraid  you  might  order 
me  off  the  pi-emises. 

Lora.  You  know  I  wouldn't  do  that. 

[She  cannot  help  showing  that  she  is  moved  ; 
goes  away  from  him,  stands  apart. 
Cutler.  Now,  George  !     Just  say  "  How  d'ye  do  ? " 
and  "Good-bye" 


Aci  m  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  165 

Norton.  No  ;  I  must  have  a  few  minutes  with  her 
alone.     [To  Loka.]  You  won't  refuse  me  ? 

Cutler.  But  I  must. 

LoRA.  Ko.  [2'o  Cutler.]  It  will  be  best.  Yes, 
please. 

Cutler.  [After  shoioing  hesitation.}  I  shall  be  back 
in  three  minutes.  [Uxit. 

LoRA.  You've  been  ill.  I'm  so  sorry.  [Looking  at 
him  searchingly.~\  You've  been  very  ill  ? 

Norton.  Yes,  I  had  a  very  near  shave.  Twice  I 
was  all  but  gone — they  did  bring  me  a  priest — upon 
my  word,  I  was  half  inclined  to  give  him  a  job.  If 
I'd  got  a  little  more  dotty,  I  believe  they  would 
have  smuggled  me  into  the  Church. 

LoRA.  But  you're  better  now — you'll  soon  be  well. 
You  have  a  splendid  constitution. 

Norton.  I  had  a  splendid  constitution,  but  this 
has  knocked  it  to  bits.  Oh,  I  shall  come  round,  but 
I've  got  to  go  through  months  of  infernal  *'  blues." 
Good  lord !  it  isn't  living  !  It's  just  hanging  on  in 
this  rotten  world,  and  wishing  I  was  out  of  it.  I've 
had  my  revolver  taken  away  for  fear  I  might  use  it, 

LoRA.  You  won't  think  of  that  ? 

Norton.  No,  I  dare  say  I  shall  hang  on ;  though 
I  don't  see  why  I  should.  I'm  no  use  to  myself  or 
anyone  else,  and  I'm  as  weak  as  a  starved  rat. 

LoRA.  Poor  fellow  ! 

Norton.  Oh,  I  deserve  it.  Well,  you've  got  your 
revenge,  haven't  you  ? 

LoRA.  I  never  wished  for  that.  Even  now,  if 
there  were  anything  I  could  do  to  help  you,  I'd  do  it. 


166  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

Norton.  Well,  there's  nobody  living  who  can  help 
me  out  of  this  hole  except  you.  But  I  don't  like  to 
ask  you. 

LoRA.  What  could  I  do  ? 

Norton.  I've  treated  you  worse  than  any  man  ever 
treated  a  woman.  Will  you  forgive  me,  if  I  offer  you 
the  last  and  worst  insult,  and  ask  you  to  marry 
me? 

LoRA.  I  couldn't  do  that,  George.  It  wouldn't  help 
you,  and  it  wouldn't  mean  anything  to  me — now. 

Norton.  You  don't  care  for  me  any  longer  ? 

LoRA.  I  don't  love  you  any  longer.  You  killed  my 
love  in  this  room  last  Novembei'.  Don't  let  us  speak 
about  it. 

Norton.  You  must  have  suffered  horribly. 

LoRA.  I  was  just  numbed  for  months,  just  dead,  I 
suppose  I  felt  it  so  mvich,  that  I  scarcely  felt  it  at  all. 
I  went  through  all  those  months  as  if  I  were  some- 
body else.  Mr.  Cutler  took  a  furnished  house  for 
me  in  the  next  road,  and  did  all  he  could.  Then  he 
went  abroad,  and  I  came  here.  I've  gradually  come 
to  life  again  these  last  few  weeks,  and  it  has  been  so 
strange  to  find  that  I  don't  love  you.  It  all  seems  so 
curious  and  far  away,  like  a  picture  that  somebody 
else  has  painted — and  it's  my  own  past  life,  and  my 
love  for  you. 

Norton.  It  hasn't  all  gone,  Lora  ? 

LoRA.  Quite.  There's  nothing  so  dead  as  a  dead 
love,  is  there  ?  Believe  me,  George,  nothing  can  bring 
back  my  love  for  you.  I'm  so  sorry — for  your  sake, 
so  sorry ! 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  167 

Norton.  What  a  fool  I've  been  ?  How  you  loved 
me ! 

LoRA.  Yes,  and  it  was  all  so  useless,  so  wasted  ;  we 
were  like  children  who  found  a  heap  of  diamonds,  and 
thought  they  were  pebbles,  and  threw  them  away  into 
the  mud. 

Norton.  Won't  you  give  me  another  chance,  Lora  ? 
I  know  I'm  a  lame  duck  just  now,  but  the  doctors 
say  I  shall  pick  myself  out  of  this,  and  be  as  good  a 
man  as  ever  I  was. 

Lora.  Yes^  you'll  come  to  life  again,  as  I  am  doing  ; 
and  then  you'll  find,  as  you  did  before,  that  I'm  not 
very  much  to  you 

Norton,  You  needn't  remind  me  what  a  skunk  I 
was  to  you. 

Lora.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  But  when  you 
get  well,  you  won't  be  quite  the  same ;  things  will 
change  with  you,  as  they  have  changed  with  me  ;  you'll 
only  wonder  at  the  past,  and  not  feel  it.  And  you'll 
meet  some  other  woman  who  will  love  you 

Norton.  God  help  her,  poor  wretch,  if  I  do.  I 
shall  make  a  pretty  bad  catch  for  any  woman.  I 
should  make  a  pretty  bad  catch  for  you.  I  don't  pre- 
tend I'm  oflering  you  anything  that's  worth  having. 
But  I  wouldn't  treat  you  as  I  did — I  can  promise  that. 

Lora.  Don't  ask  me,  George ;  it's  impossible. 

Norton.  You  haven't  made  any  other  plans  ? 

Lora.  No,  I  have  no  plans. 

Norton.  Won't  you  give  me  a  trial  ?  I've  seen  my 
wife's  solicitors,  and  she  will  agree  to  a  divorce.  So  I 
shall  be  quite  free.    I'm  ofiering  to  marry  you,  because 


168  THE  DIVINE   GIFT  act  hi 

I  want  to  show  you  that  I'm  ready  to  start  on  fresh 
lines ;  and  you'll  always  have  that  claim  on  me 

LoRA.  What  claim  ?  I  didn't  hold  you  by  love. 
How  could  I  hope  to  hold  you  by  marriage? 

Norton.  That's  true.  But  it  would  give  you  a 
position 

L  JRA.  What  position  ?  What  position  has  your 
wife  had  all  these  years  ? 

Norton.  I've  never  worried  her— she  has  been 
quite  fi'ee  to  do  as  she  likes. 

LoRA.  I  don't  want  that  position. 

Norton.  And  you  know  I  never  loved  her. 

LoRA.  You  did  love  me  ? 

Norton.  Yes,  but  I  never  found  out  how  much  till 
these  last  few  months,  since  I've  been  on  my  back. 
And  I've  got  months  of  it  yet.  Every  time  the  clock 
ticks  I  feel  I  must  dash  something  at  it,  and  stop  it. 
But  it  ticks  and  ticks;  and  I  lie  there  and  think 

and  think That  first  season  of  yours  at  Covent 

Garden,  our  first  drive  down  to  Richmond 

LoRA.  Don't,  George — ah,  please  don't 

Norton.  No,  it's  not  fair  on  you.  Well,  here  I 
am,  on  my  beam  ends,  knocked  into  a  cocked  hat ; 
I  never  was  worth  your  caring  for,  and  I  never  shall 
be.     But  won't  you  give  me  another  chance  ? 

LoRA.  [Shakes  her  head.]  Don't  press  me.  It  would 
be  such  a  terrible  mistake  for  both  of  us. 

Norton.  It  would  be  a  terrible  mistake  for  you. 
But  it's  the  only  thing  that  would  make  life  worth 
having  for  me.  [She  shakes  her  head.]  I  dare  say 
you're  right.     I'm  such  a  crock 


ACT  m  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  169 

LoRA.  Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  so  weak  and 
helpless.  If  I  were  sure  it  would  make  you  well  and 
happy,  I  think  I  could  bring  myself  to  it 

NoRTOX.  And  you  will  ?  That's  like  you,  Lora ! 
You  are  a  jewel !  [Cutler  has  entered. 

Cutler.  [Aftci'  a  look  at  them.]  Now,  George, 
You're  an  invalid.  It's  time  you  were  safely  in 
bed 

NoRTOX.  No,  I'm  going  to  stay,  if  you  don't  mind. 
[Cutler  shoios  annoyance,  looks  at  Lora  for  an 
explanation,  looks  at  Nortox.]  Lora's  going  to  come 
back  to  me,  and  pick  me  out  of  this  hole 

Cutler.  [Lookinc/  sternly  at  Lora.]  She  isn't  going 
to  do  anything  so  foolish,  so  criminal. 

Lora.  Oh,  I  don't  know !  George,  don't  ask 
me 

Norton,  I  promise,  I  swear  you  shall  never  regret 
it. 

Cutler.  No,  she  shall  never  regret  it,  because  she 
shall  never  do  it.  [Looking  at  Lora. 

NoRTOK.  It's  for  her  to  decide,  isn't  it  ? 

Cutler.  No.  I'm  going  to  decide  for  her.  I  have 
decided.  Now,  my  lad,  back  to  your  hotel,  and  your 
nurse,  and  your  slops. 

Norton.  [Standing  firm.]  No.  Lora,  I  know  now 
what  I've  got.     I'll  never  throw  it  away  again. 

[Trying  to  go  to  her. 

Cutler.  [Intercepting.]  George,  this  is  too  bad.  She 
has  been  ill.  I've  brought  her  round.  I'm  her  doctor, 
and  I  won't  have  her  disturbed.     Be  off  with  you. 

[Rings  hell. 


no  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

Norton.  "What  does  she  say  ? 

[LoRA  has  shown  signs  of  a  great  struggle. 

LoRA.  I  can't  say  anything  now.  Let  me  think  it 
over.     I'll  write  to  you  to-mori-ow. 

Cutler.  She'll  write  to  you  to-moi-row,  I'll  bring 
you  the  letter  myself. 

Norton.  No 

Cutler.  Yes.  [Sandford  ap2)ears  at  door. 

Cutler.  Taxi,  Sandford.  [Exit  Sandford. 

Norton.  You  aren't  going  to  kick  me  out  ? 

Cutler.  George,  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  as  you  know. 
But  I'd  kick  you  every  yard  of  the  way  from  here  to 
your  hotel,  rather  than  let  her  go  back  to  you. 

Norton.  Lora 

Lora.  Please  go  now.     I'll  write.     Please  go ! 

Norton.  [After  a  2Muse.]  I've  got  another  lively 
night  in  front  of  me. 

[Exit.  Cutler  goes  with  him  to  the  door,  looks 
at  Lora,  who  has  gone  to  the  sofa,  closes 
door,  comes  to  her. 

Cutler.  You  love  him  still,  then  ? 

Lora.  No,  not  at  all — in  that  way.  My  love  is 
quite  dead. 

Cutler.  Then  why  sacrifice  your  whole  future  to  a 
man  you  don't  love  ? 

Lora.  I  can't  bear  to  see  him  suflfer,  and  not  try  to 
help  him.  I  know  it's  foolish,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I 
always  give  money  to  a  beggar,  even  if  I  know  he's 
an  impostor,  and  even  if  it  won't  help  him. 

Cutler.  That's  a  divine  gift,  too.  But  it's  a  very 
mischievous  one.     Don't  you  see  that  if  you  go  back 


ACT  III  THE   DIVINE  GIFT  171 

to  him  now  it  will  be  a  meaner,  crueller  martyrdom 
than  before  ? 

LoRA.  Oh  yes,  I  know.  But  I  want  to  help 
him 

Cutler.  You  can't.  But  you  can  drag  yourself 
down  again;  j-ou  can  spoil  that  wonderful  voice 
of  yours ;  you  can  waste  the  next  four  yeai'S  on 
him  as  you  have  wasted  the  last  four,  and  find  at  the 
end  of  it  that  you've  done  no  good  to  him,  but  only 
broken  your  heart,  broken  your  healthy  and  thrown 
away  your  last  chance  of  peace  and  happiness ;  thrown 
away  the  love  and  admiration  of  your  public,  beggared 
yourself  physically,  mentally,  morally,  spiritually — 
every  way,  for  a  man  who'll  only  treat  you  in  the 
future  as  he  did  in  the  past.  You  won't  do  it !  You 
sha'n't !  Promise  me  you'll  wiite  him  that  you'll 
never  see  him  again  ! 

LoRA.  [After  a  long  ^;f«{se ;  in  a  calm  firm  voice.] 
Yes.    I'll  never  see  him  again. 

Cutler.  You  mean  that  ? 

LoRA.  Yes.    You  shall  see  the  letter. 

Cutler.  And  take  it  to  him  myself  ? 

LoRA.  Yes.  [Re  looks  at  her  anxiously^  I  mean  it, 
you  needn't  fear. 

Cutler,  Good.  I'll  keep  you  to  that.  And  now 
we  can  take  down  our  harp  from  the  willow  and  tune 
up  afresh. 

[LoRA  has  gone  away  and  sat  down.    She  is 
crying  a  little.] 

Cutler.  What  is  it  ? 


172  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

LoRA.  It  all  seems  so  useless,  so  hopeless.  Does 
nothing  ever  come  to  fruit  ? 

Cutler.  Yes.  That  voice  of  yours  has  just  ripened 
to  perfection.  What  a  harvest  of  music  there  is  in 
it ;  I  thought  last  night  it  had  never  been  so  rich  and 
full  and  persuasive.  Oh,  my  dear,  these  old  sorrows, 
these  old  suflferings,  these  old  loves  and  hates  and 
hopes  and  despairs,  what  are  they  but  the  discords 
that  we  have  to  control  and  select  and  compel  into  a 
deep  harmony,  for  the  ease  and  healing  of  others. 

LoRA.  Then  I'm  never  to  have  a  life  of  my  own  ? 

Cutler.  No.  "  He  only  can  live  the  world's  life 
who  has  renounced  his  own."  You've  got  to  renounce 
your  own  life  and  live  the  world's  life.  There's  where 
you'll  find  your  satisfaction.  Thei'e's  where  you'll 
find  an  outlet  for  your  divine  pity,  and  your  divine 
song.  You  mustn't  defraud  the  public  any  longer. 
You've  got  to  sing.  It's  your  duty,  just  as  it's  the 
soldier's  duty  to  be  found  at  his  post.  And  if  you 
run  away  you  deserve  to  be  court-martialled  and  shot. 
Think  what  God  has  given  you  to  give  out  to  others. 
It's  the  most  precious,  the  most  divine  thing  on  earth 
— this  vox  humana.  See  what  we  are  ready  to  pay 
for  it,  in  worship,  in  love,  in  admiration,  in  applause, 
in  money — more  than  we  pay  to  any  statesman,  or 
artist,  or  poet,  or  soldier.  It's  the  music  of  all  music. 
And  it's  ours  ;  it's  not  yours  ;  it's  ours  !  we  demand 
it  from  you.  We  demand  you  shall  treasure  it,  and 
hoard  it  up  for  us.  We  will  have  your  very  best. 
And  for  the  future  you'll  give  it  to  us,  won't  you  ? 

LoRA.  I'll  try  !    Dear  sage,  I'll  try. 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  173 

[John    Treganza  comes  in  from  the  balcony, 
much    excited ;    a  roll  of  music    in   his 
hand. 
John.  I've  got  it  at  last !    I've  done  it ! 
Cutler.  What? 

John.  Fair  Rosamond's  song  ?  It  has  been  haunt- 
ing me  for  months.  And  to-night  it  rushed  into  my 
head,  faster  than  I  could  score  it  down.  [Pressing  the 
roll  into  Lora's  hands.]  Just  look  over  that,  will  you, 
and  tell  me  if  it  will  do  ? 

[LoRA    takes   the   music    and    goes   over   the 
notes  to  herself.] 

Cutler.  You're  satisfied  with  it  yourself  ? 

John.  No,  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  opera  all 
through.  I  shall  do  bigger  things  by  and  by,  when 
I  get  a  bigger  subject.  "  Fair  Rosamond  "  is  rather  a 
stale  theme. 

Cutler.  There  are  no  stale  themes,  or  stale  stories. 
There  are  only  stale  authors. 

John.  There's  one  thing  about  "  Fair  Rosamond." 
It  has  a  good  strong  love  interest.  And  they  wall  have 
plenty  of  love  in  the  theatre. 

Cutler.  They  will  have  plenty  of  love — in  the 
theatre. 

[LoRA  hiims  out  a  few  notes  oj    Fair  Rosa' 
mond's  song. 

[Seccombe  enters. 

Seccombe.  The  printers  are  ringing  up  for  "The 
Future  of  the  Human  Race." 


174  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  aci  iii 

Cutler.  All  right,  Seccombe.  They  shall  have  it. 
Wait  a  moment.  [Lora  hums  a  note  or  two. 

Cutler.  We'll  try  it  over  after  supper. 

John.  Couldn't  we  run  over  the  song  now  ?  I  want 
to  hear  how  it  comes  out. 

Lora.  Come,  then.  \Exit,folloioed  hy  John. 

Cutler,  \yerij  hrishly ^   Now,  Seccombe,  let's  polish 
off  the  "  Human  Kace."     I'm  just  in  the  mood  for  it. 
[Seccombe  sits  at  taUe,  and  takes  oiot  his  copy- 
ing note-hook  and  pencil. 

Cutler.  [^Feeling  in  his  icaistcoat  pocket.]  I've  got 
all  my  notes  made. 

[Taking  lout  a  feio  slips  oj  paper  on  which  are 
p)eacilled  notes. 

Seccombe.  There's  only  the  tag 

Cutler.  Tags  are  tedious  excrescences,  Seccombe. 

Seccombe.  Yes — you'll  cut  it  short,  won't  you  ? 

Cutler.  I  can't,  Seccombe.  I  can't  spare  the 
Human  Race.  They  don't  deserve  it.  Besides,  I 
want  to  show  ofl",  and  end  in  a  pajan. 

Seccombe.  You  aren't  going  to  try  any  fine  writing, 
are  you  ? 

Cutler.  I'm  very  much  afraid  I  am.  There  used 
to  be  a  bit  of  the  poet  in  me.  Let's  see  if  we  can  wake 
him  up. 

Seccombe.  You  told  me  always  to  call  a  halt  Avhen 
you  started  fine  writing. 

Cutler.  Call  it  the  next  time.  Now,  are  you 
ready  ?  \Giving  doivn  from  his  «otes.]  "  And  over  all 
the  labours  and  habitations  of  men,  over  all  the  cities 
and  desert  places  of  the  earth,   the  implacable  old 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  175 

]\Iother  rings  out  hex'  untiring  caiillon,  from  a  tongue 
of  iron  in  a  fortress  of  stone " 

Seccombe.  [Stops,  looks  up.'\  You  don't  suppose  this 
is  the  kind  of  stuff  the  British  public  wants,  do  you  ? 

Cutler.  No,  they  don't  want  it.  But  they  need  it. 
So  let  them  have  it,  to  correct  their  self-importance. 

Seccombe.  They  won't  understand  it. 

Cutler.  The  onus  lies  upon  them.  I  love  to  be  a 
stumbling-block  to  fools.     How  far  have  you  got  ? 

Seccombe.  *'  The  implacable  old  Mother  rings  out 
her  untiring  carillon " 

Cutler.  "  From  a  tongue  of  iron  in  a  fortress  of 
stone.  '  Multiply,  my  children !  Increase  and  mul- 
tiply ! '  In  sweat  and  sorrow  and  agony,  bring  forth 
the  works  of  your  hands,  and  the  children  of  your 
loins.  Increase  and  multiply !  The  earth  is  yours. 
Possess  it,  and  encumber  it  for  a  season.  Waste  my 
substance!  "Waste  your  own  !  Come  and  go!  Love 
and  hate !     Experiment !    Toil !    Blunder  !    Weep  !  " 

Seccombe.  [Writing P\  "  Weep  !  " 

Cutler.  [Lictating,  getting  mo7'e  excited.]  "  Succour 
and  devour  each  other.  Sustain  and  destroy.  Make 
war.  Make  peace.  Fail  in  your  purposes,  you  accom- 
plish mine.  Thwart  me,  you  further  me.  Obey  me, 
I  frustrate  you.  What  you  sow,  I  reap.  What  you 
devastate,  I  replenish.  What  you  build,  I  pull 
down.  Your  will  is  the  smoke  of  my  nostrils,  and 
all  your  generations  are  weeds  that  my  breath  has 
sown " 

Seccombe.  [Grumbles.]  They'll  never  stand  this 

Cutler.  [liather  angrily.]  Take  down  I  Take  down  ! 


176  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  iii 

Take  down  !  [  Wcdking  about,  looking  occasionally  at 
Ms  notes,  then  half-closing  his  eyes,  and  dictating  more 
excitedly. 1  "  I  called  you  forth  to  supplant  you.  I 
begot  you  to  disinherit  you.  Before  I  fashioned  you, 
I  had  blotted  you  out ;  ere  ever  you  were  born,  I 
had  named  you  nothingness  and  dust.  A  deep  pit  of 
oblivion  have  I  digged  for  you ;  and  there  shall  you 
be  buried,  and  all  memory  of  you  perish,  as  of  them 
that  are  dead  of  old." 

Seccombe.  \Writing.'\  "Dead  of  old." 

Cutler.  "  Yet  increase  and  multiply,  my  children  ! 
Fill  the  void  places  of  the  earth.  Rejoice  for  an  hour. 
Increase  and  multiply.  The  sun's  blue  vault  I  stretch 
above  you,  and  Iris'  rain-dyed  bow.  For  you  I  paint 
the  clouds  with  gold  and  vermilion  ;  and  for  you  I 
powder  the  night  with  diamonds.  Increase  and 
multiply.  Springtime  and  summer  and  harvest  I 
vouchsafe  you ;  laughter  and  music  and  wine ;  friend- 
ship, and  the  prattle  of  children " 

\A  nightingale  in  the  garden  gives  out  a  few 
deep,  startling  notes.^^    Jug !    Jug  !    Jug  ! 

Cutler.  [Pausing  to  listen.'\  The  old  strain  outside, 
Seccombe, 

[A  few  chords  of  Rosamond's  song  are  struck 
on  the  piano  in  the  next  room,  and  Lora's 
voice  is  heard  essaying  the  song,  "I  am 
loved,  I  am  owned,  I  am  mated."] 

Cutler.  The  old  strain  inside,  Seccombe. 

Seccombe.  There  was  an  article  in  the  last  number 
of  the  "  Medical  Review  "  proving  that  love  is  a  form 
of  paranoia. 


ACT  III  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  177 

Cutler.  It's  a  very  agreeable  form  of  paranoia. 
Seccombe.  My  fit  cost  me  three  hundred  pounds. 
[The  nightmgale  again  gives  out  startling  notes. 
Jug  !  Jug  !  Jug ! 
Cutler,  Don't  be  a  dog  in  the  manger,  Seccombe. 
Don't   grudge   poor   mortals  their  "  drop  of  Venus' 
honeyed  joy,  succeeded  soon  by  chilly  care." 

\A  feto  chords  are  struck  in  the  next  room,  and 
LoRA  tries  her  voice,  lettering  deep  rich 
notes.  He  creeps  noiselessly  to  the  door  and 
opens  it  very  slowly  ;  then  comes  down,  a 
step  or  two  away  from  it  listening. 
Seccombe.  What  about  the  "  Human  Race  "  ? 
Cutler.  Oh,  let  it  perish.    Listen ! 

[LoRA    through    the    open    door    sings    Fair 
Rosamond's  song. 


I  am  loved,  I  am  owned,  I  am  mated  ; 
Swell,  thrush,  that  gold- bright  throat ; 
Burst,  pierce,  that  wild  sweet  note  ; 
He  draws  near,  lord  of  me,  long  awaited ; 
Spill  rich  fierce  sounds  like  wine, 
Pour  out  my  soul  with  thine ; 
Sing  !  Sing !  Sing  ! 
Come  meet  me!   Come  meet  me!   Come  meet  me! 

Sing  !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 
For  the  garlanded  earth  is  a  song,  and  a  fire,  and 
a  bloom,  new  created. 
Sing !  Sing  !  Sing  ! 


178  THE  DIVINE  GIFT  act  hi 

II. 

Swift  he  rides ;  hot  he  spurs ;  on  he  presses ; 
Plunge,  horse,  with  sure  proud  feet ; 
Fly,  ground,  their  glad  quick  beat ; 
He  breaks  way  through  the  green  wildernesses ; 
Stop,  heart,  and  bound  again  ; 
Gallop  with  pantings ;  then 
Leap !  Leap !  Leap  ! 
I  greet  thee  !  I  greet  thee  !  I  greet  thee ! 

Leap  !  Leap  !  Leap ! 
To  my  arms,  and  there  rest,  while  day  sinks ; 
then  fulfilled,  after  utmost  caresses, 
Sleep !  Sleep  !  Sleep  ! 


CURTAIN. 


Printed  by 

Ballantyne  &  Company  Ltd 

London 


-R 


6 


T> 


L  005  277  878  4 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  383  741 


